THE GIRL NEXT DOOR
by The-Deckers
Summary: Jesse finds his attractive neighbor has an unfortunate past. When he tries to help, he gets sucked into a dangerous web of gambling, counterfeiting, kidnapping & murder. Ch 12 up. STORY COMPLETE.
1. Shakespeare Run Riot

**THE GIRL NEXT DOOR**

**Chapter One: Shakespeare Run Riot**

There were, Ellie mused as she watched him, _definite_ advantages to having a doctor for a neighbour. It was like having your own personal physician, without the outrageous expense that came with it. That he was so easy on the eyes didn't exactly hurt either, especially when he was working out. Feeling slightly voyeuristic, but not caring in the slightest, Ellie settled back into her deck chair, sipping on a refilled glass of iced tea, while watching him jog through their condo's grounds.

It was the dream that every mother – her own included – wanted for their unwed daughter. From the moment she'd met her daughter's new neighbour, the scheming had started. After all, she'd spent a fortune on her mother-of-the-bride outfit. One which she'd never got to wear. And for all her substantial wealth, Lucinda Fortescue wasn't the type of woman to waste money. So, if there was the slightest chance of her daughter marrying someone – _anyone_ – in the near future, she was naturally keen to do whatever she could to help 'poor, poor Eleanor' in her time of need.

Even now, two weeks after she'd moved in, those subtle maternal suggestions still kept on coming. "You know, darling, you really are looking _incredibly_ tired. _Dreadfully_ pale. Are you alright? Maybe you should ask that charming neighbour of yours to give you a really _thorough_ check up . . ."

Of course, if truth be told, she very rarely needed medical help, emergency or otherwise, but – well, all the same, it was a comfort to know he was there, just one storey down from her. Besides, Ellie derived a mischievous pleasure from keeping her matchmaking mother on tenterhooks. The more hints she dropped, the more her stubbornly independent daughter ignored them – which provided the young Englishwoman with no end of amused entertainment.

More seriously, Ellie was still smarting from Hugo's betrayal, the humiliation of her ruined wedding. The last thing she wanted right now was to fall into the common trap of a knee-jerk romance. An easy, commitment free friendship was just what she needed – and exactly what she'd found. She could talk to Jesse for hours, and had been thrilled to discover their shared interest in history. Her privileged English upbringing fascinated him, but didn't leave him fawning at her feet. To someone so used to that irritating shallowness, it made a refreshing change.

So her mother's dream of her marrying into medicine would have to wait. Ellie was in no rush. _Still,_ she mused, her smile appreciatively widening, _there's no harm in looking while I'm waiting . . ._

Not wishing to take after her man-hungry mother _too_ much, Ellie then surfaced from her musings – thoughts of Shakespeare running riot as she called to the figure who now stood below her balcony. Even in his disheveled, panting for breath state, Romeo still held a definite appeal. "Jesse! After that run, I'd imagine you're ready for a long cool drink! Come on up!"

Squinting up at her, still too out of breath to reply, Jesse grinned and waved in grateful acceptance – giving his lungs a few more moments to recover before calling up a slightly rueful afterthought.

"Thanks, Ellie, just . . . um . . . give me ten minutes to get showered and freshened up, okay?"

Resisting the urge to offer him the services of her own bathroom, Ellie grinned back and nodded – treating herself to one final appreciative glance before retreating inside to answer the telephone.

Had their walls been thinner, her approval of her sweet, ever cheery neighbour may have changed. Now safely out of earshot, a hot and sweatily aching Jesse Travis was _not_ a happy camper. "Aw, that's just great!" he growled, slamming the door behind him more forcibly than usual. "Of all the people to see me when I look like something the cat dragged in, it just has to be Ellie!" The peeved mutterings continued as Jesse stomped through the living area into his bathroom, venting more of his frustration on his shirt by tugging it off and hurling it onto a nearby chair. "What the hell was I thinking, going out jogging in this heat? Jeez, it had to be ninety out there! I must be crazy! Either that, or Steve's right. Maybe I _am_ gettin' old!"

The humorous irony of his forty-something friend teasing him about his age soon improved his mood, causing Jesse to fondly smile and shake his head while he stepped carefully into the shower. Since it had been that same forty-something friend who'd persuaded him to get this new treat installed, he could forgive Steve the occasional brotherly teasing. Well, within reason, of course . . . He'd had power showers before, in his other apartments, but this thing was a real luxury. It ranged from a gentle spray to an all out massage, which was like standing under your own Niagara. Perfect for easing away the aches and pains from a long, busy shift . . . or a four mile jog.

Setting the controls to 'pulsating massage', Jesse released the water flow and sighed with pleasure as a torrent of soothing coolness began to pummel onto his shoulders, easing away the aches of exercise. _I guess that's another one I owe you, Steve_, he thought, mentally adding Mark to that thank you list. It had been Mark's idea that he move into this new condo after Susan had left, just over a month ago. A new place, a new start – a chance for him to put his pain at their break up behind him.

Her decision to leave him had come totally without warning, leaving Jesse completely floored. They'd been seen as the perfect couple and, it seemed, destined to spend the rest of their lives together. Unfortunately, by the time he'd realised this, and finally plucked up courage to ask her to marry him, Susan had lost patience and left for Oregon with a smooth talking, visiting chiropractor. Still, as he'd ruefully explained to Mark, she'd often complained about her bad back. A wry smile then settled on Jesse's face as he rotated his shoulders under the pummelling torrent. _I don't suppose she's complaining now…_

Bitterness wasn't in Jesse's nature, so his thoughts soon moved onto a more cheerful subject. Ellie. She was about as far away from Susan as you could get, far closer to his own easy going temperament. Maybe that was why they got on so well, he mused, briskly rinsing fresh water through his hair. Or maybe, with her being five years his junior, Steve's big brother influence was rubbing off on him. Whatever the reason, the arrival of Eleanor 'Ellie' Fortescue in his life had touched quite a chord.

Remembering that he was on a deadline, Jesse quickly finished his shower and, towel round his waist, headed into his bedroom to change into fresh clothes. Dressing quickly was an art he'd perfected as an intern, when time in the ER was always so precious. It certainly came in handy now as he slipped into a fresh T shirt and, after a few seconds consideration, a pair of black jeans which were rather smarter than he'd normally wear on his day off. Pulling on his shoes, Jesse caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above his dresser and groaned.

He hated to admit it (and never would, of course) but Amanda was right. He really _did_ need a haircut! Controlling the tousled blond mop was tricky at the best of times, let alone when it was soaking wet. Now it stood up in tangled spikes, as though he'd foolishly poked his finger in a live electrical socket. Wincing at the memory of an overly curious four year old, Jesse set to work with his comb and dryer. He wasn't vain, by any means. Life as a trauma surgeon, with all that work entailed, had seen to that – but meeting Ellie for a drink called for a special effort.

Five minutes later, the mop more or less tamed, Jesse pocketed his keys and left his bedroom – adding just a trace of his favourite aftershave before leaving his apartment.

He'd run a fair way over his ten minute estimate, so he could forgive Ellie for rebuking his lateness. The sight of her greeting him in floods of tears, though . . . well, it threw him, for sure. It also caused his ability to ask sensible questions to temporarily desert him.

"Ellie? Hey, are you alright?" he asked – mentally kicking himself for asking something so stupid. The doctor in him soon took over, though, as Jesse slipped his arm around Ellie's shoulders, supporting her while walking her to the couch. "Here, come and sit down . . . " he added softly, pouring her some water before taking a seat beside her.

Smiling her thanks, albeit shakily, Ellie took a few sips while wiping self-consciously at her eyes. "I – I'm sorry, Jesse," she said at last, breathing deeply to regain her still shaken composure. "What must you think of me, greeting you in such a state as this?"

"Hey, don't worry about that," Jesse assured her, frowning slightly as he squeezed her shoulder. In spite of all his efforts to comfort her, Ellie was still trembling, clearly shaken and upset. "Maybe I should get you something stronger," he suggested, nodding towards a tray of drinks. "Or . . . I – I mean, do you want me to call someone? Maybe your mom, or . . . ?"

"_No!_" Ellie replied, guessing from his reaction that she'd spoken more sharply than she'd intended. Grateful for the understanding in his smile, she then sighed again, regaining her composure. "I'm sorry, Jesse, I didn't mean to snap, especially with the kindness you've shown towards me, but . . . well, to be honest, the last person I need to be fussing around me right now is my mother! I mean, don't get me wrong, Jesse, I love her dearly, but . . . well, you've seen what she's like! She still treats me like a child at the best of times, let alone when I'm upset!"

To her relief, Jesse was already nodding, in both understanding and empathy. "My mom's the same, she just can't accept that her little boy's grown up," he admitted ruefully, grateful to see that Ellie was smiling back at him, then laughing outright at what he said next. "Well, maybe grown, at least . . . not so sure about the _up_ part."

It was a knack he'd perfected over the years, deflecting snide comments over his size with humour. He'd also learned, under Mark's patient guidance, to be serious when circumstances needed him to be. So, when Ellie grew quiet once more, so did he – waiting for her to tell him what was troubling her.

"I've just had a telephone call from Hugo, my . . . um, ex fiancé . . . " she said at last, frowning slightly. This was, she realised, the first time she'd told anyone outside her family of what he'd done to her. Until now she'd been reluctant to do so, but she knew she'd find a sympathetic ear in Jesse. Finding strength from his presence and gently prompting smile, she then falteringly continued. "Until five weeks ago, well, he seemed the perfect gentleman. We'd known each other for years. In fact, his father and mine were business partners, so Hugo and I pretty much grew up together. It didn't surprise anyone when we announced our engagement. We were seen as an ideal match. I loved him so much, Jesse, and – and I thought he loved me, but . . . but . . ." Too upset to continue, Ellie fell silent while Jesse nodded in his own, still painfully raw understanding.

"He left you?" he asked at last, not needing – or daring – to say anything more.

"Yes, at – at the altar," Ellie replied, smiling her thanks for the comforting squeeze on her shoulder. "At first I thought it was some kind of joke, since he did have the oddest sense of humour, but – well, it didn't take long for me to realise that it was no joke. He really _had_ left me at the altar, and . . . oh Jesse, it was awful! We'd invited so many guests, and of course both of our families were there . . . no one knew what was happening, or where he'd gone, or why, and . . . it was just so humiliating!"

"Yes, I can imagine . . ." Jesse said softly, his thoughts inevitably drifting back to Susan.

They'd been at home, alone together, when she'd dropped her bombshell, rather than the hospital. Hearing that news in private had been devastating enough, but to be dumped on your wedding day . . . Now at least he could draw some gratitude, an odd sense of comfort from Susan's discretion. A soft sniff brought him back to the present – reminding him that Ellie hadn't been so lucky. She was crying again now, offering no resistance as Jesse drew her into a gentle, comforting hug. There was, he knew, little else he could do or say until those tears of anger and bitterness stopped.

After several minutes, Ellie pushed herself away, smiling her thanks for the comfort he'd given her. "And now he's suddenly back in my life again," she said at last, bemusedly shaking her head. "Five weeks of total silence, not having a clue where he is, and suddenly he wants to talk to me!"

"Does he want you to get back together?" Jesse asked with, he hoped, a casual politeness. It was none of his business, of course, yet he couldn't help but feel a twinge of protective jealousy.

Sensing this, but not sure how much she dared to read into it, Ellie sighed and shook her head. "I really don't know, Jesse . . . he just kept saying 'I'm sorry' over and over again," she replied at last. "He sounded upset, though, and . . . well, I thought a little bit scared too."

Jesse's ears pricked up at that last remark, as they always did when a hint of a mystery reached them. Before his curiosity ran away with him, however, Ellie's soft voice broke into his thoughts. "I just wish I knew what to do! I – I mean, he's hurt me, and let me down so badly, and yet . . . he sounded so scared, Jesse, as though he really needed my help."

Jesse nodded thoughtfully, as if trying to making a decision, before he met her eyes and smiled. "Well, assuming you decide to meet him, do you . . . um . . . want some company?"

Taken by surprise, Ellie smiled back at him in genuine relief and nodded in grateful acceptance.


	2. Vanishing Acts

**THE GIRL NEXT DOOR**

**Chapter Two: Vanishing Acts**

Forty-five minutes later, Jesse and Ellie were pulling up outside BBQ Bob's. Upon realizing that Hugo hadn't mentioned a time or a place for the meeting, she had called him back using the number on the caller ID and, at Jesse's suggestion, set up the meeting at a place where she would be comfortable. As they approached the building, a man sprinted down the sidewalk toward them.

"Ellie!" he called urgently.

"Hugo!" she shouted and let him sweep her off her feet in a bear hug.

Hugo swung her around like a rag doll several times and then set her back on her feet. She must have been a little dizzy, because she stumbled back against Jesse, who put his arm around her waist to steady her. Eyeing the small, blonde man warily, Hugo asked, "Who are you?"

Ellie stood up straight and said, "Hugo Bordonov, meet Dr. Jesse Travis, my new boyfriend. Jesse, this is the childhood friend I was telling you about."

Jesse noticed the anger and hurt that crossed Hugo's face and wished the man didn't live up to his name so well. He was indeed huge, at least six foot four, swarthy with a permanent five o'clock shadow, and built like he could uproot trees with his bare hands. Dumbfounded, he looked at Ellie as the word boyfriend finally sunk in, and when he saw the pleading in her eyes, he grinned back at the human mountain before him and offered his hand.

Hugo's grip was firm, almost painful, not intended to injure _this time, _but it definitely sent a message. Determined not to be bullied, Jesse narrowed his eyes and said, "Ellie says she thinks you are having some problems. If you tell me what's up, I might be able to get someone to help you."

Hugo released his hand and looked around furtively. Jerking his head in the direction of the door, he said, "Let's go inside. It's not safe out on the street."

Jesse barely managed to refrain from checking to see that his hand was still there as Hugo released his grip to open the door and hold it for Ellie. As she walked past him, the big man turned and followed her in, letting it fall shut on Jesse. Inside the restaurant, Ellie headed for her usual table by the windows, but Hugo said, "No, in the back. It's safer." Jesse smiled and slid into the booth next to Ellie when she took the seat opposite Hugo.

"Hugo, will you tell me what's wrong, please?"

As if trying to decide what to do, Hugo just stared at Ellie for a moment. Shelley, one of the waitresses, came by to give them menus, but she got no response to her greeting. She gave Jesse a questioning look as she sensed the tense silence at the table, but taking the menus from her, he shook his head and warned her off.

"Hugo, please," Ellie pleaded.

The big man closed his eyes and sighed, and for just a moment, Jesse could see the real fear on his face. Then the mask slid back in place as he opened his eyes and said, "Ellie, I don't want to involve you."

"Then why did you call her?" Jesse asked.

"I . . . I don't know." Hugo lowered his eyes and began tracing patterns on the table top with his index finger. "I just needed . . . I needed to talk."

"Then talk to us," Ellie said.

Another thoughtful silence, and then Hugo shook his head. "I . . . I can't . . . I'm in trouble with some serious people. You could get hurt."

He stood to leave, and Ellie gave Jesse a 'do something' look. Jesse looked back at her as if to ask, 'What?' and she widened her eyes and jerked her head in Hugo's direction. Standing up to face the larger man, Jesse took his arm and said, "Look, we're already involved. If your . . . enemies are watching you, they saw that hug you gave Ellie, and they know she means something to you. If they start watching her, they will know I mean something to her. That means we're both in danger, too, so you might as well tell us what's up."

Hugo gave Jesse an angry frown, jerked free of his grasp, and started to stride away, but Jesse scurried to head him off, and halfway across the room he got in the larger man's face and hissed quietly, "I know you have no love for me, but if you wanted to protect Ellie, you never should have called her. Now, she is in danger, and the only way to keep her safe is to put these people in jail. I have a good friend who's a cop, talk to me, and I will get him to help you."

For a moment, Hugo stood huffing angrily at the smaller man, then a haunted look came into his eyes. He turned abruptly and went back to the booth, sliding in beside Ellie. Jesse followed him back to the table and slid across the other seat so that he was sitting by the wall, facing Ellie. For some reason, he reached out and took her hand, and to his relief, she smiled at him in gratitude. As Shelley walked by, Jesse waved her over, and after she filled their water glasses, Jesse and Ellie ordered. Shelley waited patiently for Hugo to tell her what he wanted, but he shook his head and said shamefacedly, "I . . . I can't."

"Hugo, you need to eat," Ellie told him.

"No, Ellie, really, I'm fine."

Suddenly, Jesse understood his embarrassed behaviour. If the man was on the run, he could be running out of money, too, and he was ashamed to admit it. The guy did look kind of ragged. He might not have eaten in a while.

"Consider it on the house," Jesse said congenially. "I'm part owner of the restaurant." His thanks were a grateful smile from Ellie and a laser-hot, angry glare from Hugo.

"I thought you were a doctor," the giant rumbled.

"I am," Jesse said, "but my friend the cop, his dad, and I bought this place as a sideline."

Hugo reluctantly nodded and ordered a huge amount of food. They sat silently sipping their water as they waited for their meals to arrive. When Jesse finally had his plate of ribs, Ellie had her sandwich, and Hugo had a family sized mixed platter and two appetizers before him, they began to talk.

"Hugo, tell us what's going on, please," Ellie said.

Hugo chewed and swallowed and chased his food with a gulp of soda. Then he began.

"I had some pretty big debts to pay, Ellie," he began. "These guys came into the office one day and offered a huge payoff to shepherd some . . . merchandise into the country for them. It was supposed to be so easy. One big payoff and my problems were solved."

"Wait, what kind of debts, what was the 'merchandise', and how were you supposed to get it into the country?" Jesse interrupted.

Hugo looked daggers at the young doctor and said, "Gambling, I didn't know at the time, and I work with Ellie's dad and mine in an import-export business."

"Gambling! Hugo how could you?" Ellie exclaimed.

Jesse squeezed her hand gently and said, "Ellie, don't. It can happen to anyone."

She nodded her understanding, looked at Hugo, and said, "I'm sorry, I'm just surprised that it has happened to him, _again_. Go on."

"Well, I got curious," Hugo said. "It was one big deal, one hundred shipping containers, the kind that you haul on the back of a tractor trailer, y'know, and when the first of them came in, I took a look inside. They were full of cash, U.S. dollars, small bills, ones, fives, tens, twenties, and fifties. The money was so new I could smell the ink, and since it was coming in from North Korea, by way of Singapore, I knew it had to be counterfeit. I 'lost' the containers . . . "

"Lost them?" Jesse asked. "How do you lose a hundred shipping containers?"

"Oh, _I_ know where they are, but no one _else_ can find them," Hugo explained. "You'd be surprised how much stuff comes through the docks on any given day. It's easy to misplace something. Just transpose a few numbers, and it vanishes into thin air."

"Ok, go on."

"Well, while I was sitting on the shipment, I did some math. By my estimation, that much funny money could do some damage to the economy. I decided to go to the cops, but first, I took enough off the top to pay off my markers."

"How much did you take?" Ellie asked.

"Five hundred grand," Hugo said flatly.

"Do you mean to tell me you were five hundred thousand dollars in debt to your bookie?"

"Well . . . "

"What?"

"I only owed him two hundred and fifty grand, but I figured there was so much there, and, well, Nicolayev is a crook anyway. I thought I could have some fun with the other two-fifty. Maybe I could win enough to set myself up in business somewhere under a new name after I testified against the North Koreans, but . . . " Hugo trailed off and began to pick at his meal.

"You lost it all, didn't you?" Ellie asked in a deadly tone.

Hugo nodded without looking up.

"Are you _insane?_" Ellie smacked him hard on the back of the head and he ducked. "You idiot! Do you realize that you have put both of our families in danger? What do you think your Asian friends are going to do when they don't get their containers? And your bookie, he wants his money, too. What if one of them had come looking for Mummy or Daddy or your parents while you were hiding! Oh, God!" Ellie looked horrified. "Our dads don't know about it, do they? They weren't in on it?"

"No, of course not," Hugo snapped. "They'd both kill me twice over if they knew what I'd done."

"And with good reason," Ellie snapped, "They've spent their lives building up that business, and they did it honestly. They don't deserve to have you come in and ruin it for them just because you're so damned fond of the ponies and the fights."

"I know, I know," Hugo said, "and I know now that I have a problem, and I know you have been telling me to get help for years. I promise I will, Ellie, as soon as I can get out of this mess."

"If you don't get yourself killed first," Ellie said quietly.

"Ellie, please . . ."

"Hold it," Jesse interrupted. "Take a break. Let's just box up our meals, go find Steve, and see if he can help, ok?"

"Steve?" Hugo echoed the name.

"My friend who's a cop. He also has a friend who's with the FBI. I am sure between the two of them they can help you, if you're serious about wanting help."

Hugo sighed and nodded. "I don't want to die, and I don't want to get anyone killed." He looked at Ellie. "I am sorry, you know."

She nodded tearfully and said. "And you're an idiot, but I love you like a brother. I've met Steve. He's a good guy. He'll help."

Following Jesse's lead, Hugo and Ellie stood up and headed toward the counter with their meals to have them boxed to take with them. They were waiting for Shelley to bring the containers back from the kitchen when six men dressed in black and wearing black balaclavas came bursting in and rent the air with a burst of automatic weapons fire. Before anyone could react, Jesse and Ellie were dragged out of the restaurant and the leader told Hugo in a nasally accented voice, "You have three days. Get our money or wifey and friend dies."

. . . . . . . . .

"Ok, I'm putting you in protective custody, Mr. Bordonov," Steve said as Hugo finished telling his story, "and I will send officers to look after your parents and Miss Fortescue's mother and father."

"Her father is at the London office."

"I see." Steve frowned. "Agent Wagner will be meeting us at the precinct after he confirms the existence of the money and sets up a surveillance team to be sure it doesn't get 'lost' again, and you will probably also have to speak with someone from the Secret Service as well. They usually investigate counterfeiting operations."

Hugo just nodded. Never in all his life had he dreamed that playing the ponies could get so many people he cared about into so much trouble. He felt especially bad about the doctor. The man didn't know him from Adam, and he was willing to help. He hoped Dr. Travis would make Ellie very happy some day.

"If you'll come with me, Mr. Bordonov, we'll get you someplace safe."

Steve stepped out of the restaurant and looked side to side, checking the street for threats. The coast seemed clear, so he turned and said over his shoulder, "Walk ahead of me, quickly, to the blue Crown Vic. I'll stay close behind and cover you, understand?"

Hugo nodded and moved past the cop and into the street. He was about ten yards from the car when a shot rang out. Hugo cried out as his leg crumpled beneath him. Cursing, Steve wrapped an arm around the larger man's chest and tried to drag him to the car as his eyes wildly searched the street for the shooter. A black and white that had been dispatched to the kidnapping was just leaving the scene, and it screeched to a halt beside Steve. The passenger door swung open and Steve shoved Hugo in yelling, "Get him to Community General _now_!"

As the cruiser roared off, lights flashing and sirens blaring, Steve dove for cover behind his vehicle.

. . . . . . . . .

"I am honest American businessman," Cheslav Nicolayev said, grinning smugly. "I know nothing of this hit you describe to me."

Steve grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him against the wall. "I have had a very bad day, Nicolayev, and I am not in the mood to play games. I don't want to arrest you. I'm just telling you to get off Hugo Bordonov's back. We need him to catch bigger fish."

Despite his protests, Nicolayev had to be the one who had ordered the hit on Hugo. The North Koreans needed him alive until they got their money back, and there was no one else who would want him dead.

"Ahhh, Bordonov, do you know he owed me two hundred fifty thousand dollars?" Cheslav said conversationally. "Now it is seven hundred fifty thousand. He came to me a few weeks ago with five hundred thousand. He could have paid his debt and still played, but he gambled first and lost it all. I have never seen a man with worse luck." He shook his head sadly. "You know, I think that boy is compulsive gambler. He needs help."

Steve smiled bitterly as he let go of the man's suit. "I am sure he appreciates your concern," he said. "But I don't care what he owes you. Bordonov has put my friends in danger, and until I get them back, I want you to leave him alone. If anything else happens to him, or if anything happens to my friends because of what you do to him, I'm coming for you, and when I am finished, you'll wish I had sent you to jail."

"You are delusional, Detective," the Russian mobster said, straightening his clothes. "I would never hurt Hugo. He is worth much more to me alive than he is dead. I was planning to let him work off his debt by contracting with his family's business to import certain goods from Mother Russia."

Steve narrowed his eyes. "And what were you planning to ship? Drugs, weapons, biological agents, or teenage girls to work as sex slaves in your brothel?"

"I have already told you, Detective, I am honest American businessman," Nicolayev said, smiling again. "I would never do such a terrible thing to nice Russian girl looking for better life here in America. Besides, in this great land of ours, even if I were criminal, Fifth Amendment protects me from having to tell you what I have done wrong."

"If you didn't try to kill him, then who did?"

"I do not know, but if I find out, I will be sure to tell you who did."

Clenching his fists to avoid pulverizing the man, Steve said through gritted teeth, "You be sure to do that."

. . . . . . . . .

Steve skulked into the doctors' lounge and fixed himself a cup of coffee. His expression was dark as a thundercloud, and Mark knew better than to speak before he was spoken to. Steve took a long gulp from his cup, sat at the table, and sighed.

"How's Bordonov?"

"Resting comfortably," Mark said. "The bullet shattered his fibula and tibia and tore up the muscles, but with some physical therapy he should recover."

Steve nodded. "Nicolayev didn't order the hit."

"What?" Mark asked in shock. "Then who did?"

"I don't know," Steve said, "but Nicolayev was going to use Hugo's markers to force him to smuggle something for him. Of course he wouldn't say what that was."

"Naturally." As the two men sat in silence, each lost in his own thoughts, Ron stalked into the lounge, looking every bit as furious as Steve had. Unwittingly mimicking his friend's actions, he fixed himself a cup of coffee, took a long drink, sat at the table facing Steve, and sighed.

"The money's gone," he said. "All one hundred containers."


	3. Gulag

**THE GIRL NEXT DOOR**

**Chapter Three:  Gulag**

Jesse and Ellie were thrown forcibly into the dark depths of a large van. Its windows were blacked out so the only light which penetrated the shadows came from a small opening in the division between them and the driver. Ellie landed heavily on her left elbow with a sharp cry of pain and immediately Jesse began to rise from his position on the other side of the van.  One of the balaclava-clad, gun wielding, men growled, "Don't move."

Despite his well-justified fear at the situation in which he now found himself, Jesse was not cowed. He pointed at Ellie saying, "She is hurt. I am a doctor and I intend to help her."

Without waiting for a reaction, Jesse covered the short distance between himself and Ellie who was cradling her elbow. Even in the near total darkness, Jesse could see the pain in her eyes and the fact that she was sweating. After a brief examination, he removed his jacket and sweater. He fashioned the sweater into a makeshift bandage which he tied gently into the left side of Ellie's neck, her elbow supported in the soft, still warm material. He then wrapped his jacket, with equal care, around her shoulders in order to stop her from going further into shock.  Only then did he recall his captors and he looked up.

"The elbow is broken. She must go to hospital at once."

The only reply was a snort followed by an expletive that, had Jesse not been a gentleman, he may well have been tempted to utter himself.  Correctly interpreting the expletive as a refusal of his request, Jesse could only content himself with leaning back against the humming wall of the van and pulling Ellie gently against him.

For what seemed like an age, the van moved smoothly on its way. Obviously the driver was not being pursued as they occasionally stopped, Jesse assumed for lights, and when a corner was taken it was done smoothly without the screeching wheels that usually attended a car chase.  Abruptly, the van stopped and Jesse heard a sound that was both familiar and elusive to him. After a minute or so forward movement resumed and even the small amount of light that illuminated the interior of the van vanished. 

"What are you going to do with us?" Ellie spoke for the first time since being thrown into the van, her voice filled with the pain from her injury.

"Nothing," came the husky voiced reply, before continuing, "for the moment. Your continued good health lies in the hands of young Hugo back at that grease pit."

Jesse's hands clenched into fists at the unjustified slur on Bob's good name but he wisely did nothing. He remembered the old adage, 'sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me."  Names certainly couldn't hurt but the gun that was now pressed into his neck certainly could.

"Out!" the monosyllabic order was accentuated by a shove with the gun and Jesse moved towards the door which had been opened.

As Jesse stepped carefully from the van, turning to help Ellie down, four large lights came on flooding the area in which they now stood. Blinking against the sudden brightness, it took Jesse a few seconds to realise where they were. There were four large floodlights, one at each corner of a square, illuminating a large, bright red container which stood in the centre.

"What's that?" Jesse asked.

"Your new home," replied 'husky voice' and Jesse could have sworn that the man was smiling, "Move."

Once more, Jesse put a cautious arm around Ellie and led her towards the steps which descended from the rear of the container. At the base of them he turned to look at the man behind him, who simply jerked his head in the direction of what was to be their abode for the foreseeable future. Slowly, Jesse and Ellie climbed in. They had hardly stepped into the container, when the doors closed behind them with a resounding CLANG.

For a split second they stood huddled together in absolute darkness, but just as Jesse was beginning to feel the early stirrings of panic he heard the whirring sound of a generator starting up and two lights came on, illuminating the interior of the container.  Jesse stared around and his heart sank. Their abduction had obviously been well planned, for in one corner he spied two bedrolls, a large refrigerated container and, in the opposite corner, an oversized, covered pail. Taking his arms from around Ellie's shoulders, Jesse moved across to the sleeping bags and rolled one out for her to sit on whilst tucking the other behind her.

"Jesse, what is going on?" Ellie asked, watching as he opened the refrigerated container.

"Hugo," Jesse was succinct. "Obviously the people he is involved with have decided to add a bit of personal leverage to the situation."

He continued to rummage about for a minute and then sat back on his heels and said, "At least they do not intend for us to starve while we are here, there are plenty of sandwiches and drinks."

"What if Hugo won't do what they ask?" Ellie voice betrayed both her fear and her pain.

"Steve will find us long before we have to worry about anything like that," Jesse reassured her.

¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬

The room swam hazily into focus and Hugo groaned as an involuntary move of his leg caused a sharp pain to shoot all the way up his thigh.

"It's alright, Son," said a soft, voice in his ear, "you are safe with us."

"Where is Ellie?" Hugo's first thought was for his former fiancée.

"Steve and Ron haven't managed to find them yet I am afraid," Mark replied, "but they are working hard on the problem."

He paused for a few seconds before continuing, "Can I ask you something, Hugo?"

Hugo looked across at him, misgiving in his eyes. The last few weeks had given him little reason to trust anyone. "What do you want?"

"Your gambling," Mark began, "how did it start?"

This was the last question that Hugo expected and it took a few seconds for him to realise what he had been asked.

"How did it start?" he echoed Mark's question, giving himself a little more time to think, then he asked Mark a question in return, "What did your father do, Dr. Sloan?"

"My father?" Mark was silent for a while, "he was a police officer. I didn't know him very well as he was murdered when I was quite young, although I didn't find that out until very recently."

"My father is the co-owner of the import/export business that I work for. It is a very successful business, making both Ellie's father and mine very rich."

"Why would having a rich father cause you to start gambling?" Mark asked a little confused.

"When I was growing up, Dr. Sloan," Hugo answered, "I wanted for nothing. Toys, clothes, good education."

"But you wanted the love of your father," Mark interrupted.

"Not at all, Dr. Sloan. My father loved my sister and me, giving us all the time that he could. It was the fact that we wanted for nothing; there was nothing that we had to work for. There was no . . . . . . . . . . . " Hugo seemed to be struggling for the right words to use, "anticipation, excitement."

"And gambling gave you those feelings?"

"It did," Hugo said.

"Did you not realise that gambling is addictive and would eventually destroy you?"

"No, I didn't." Hugo answered, "At the beginning it was simply fun and I thought that I had a handle on it, that I could stop whenever I wanted. Initially I never laid a bet that I couldn't cover out of my salary, but somewhere along the way I lost the ability to know where to draw the line. First of all the bets began to get bigger so that I had to get advances on my salary, not hard when you are the boss's son, then I had to sell some of my things. Before I knew it I was in way over my head."

"Was that when the guys came to you with the offer about the money?" Mark asked.

"Yes, it was." Hugo answered, "At the time I didn't know what it was, all I knew was that they were offering me enough cash to cover all my debts."

"Did it not occur to you that it was illegal?" Mark.

"To be honest, Dr. Sloan, no it didn't. All I could see was a way out from under and, at that moment, nothing else mattered."

Understanding the innate selfishness that an addiction brought out in a person, Mark decided to change tack slightly, "Do you have any idea who these people were?"

"We didn't exchange names and addresses for Christmas cards, if that's what you mean," Hugo replied, with the first spark of real life that he had shown since the start of the conversation.

"No, that isn't what I meant," Mark answered, "it's just that if you have any idea of who they were, where they came from, then it will be a great help to my son."

"Your son?" Hugo queried.

"The police lieutenant that was with you at Bobs," Mark smiled, "is my son, Steve. So, do you have anything that might help?"

"They were going to contact me when they wanted the containers moved, I had no way of contacting them," Hugo answered and then his face changed as if he had suddenly thought of something.

"What is it, Hugo?"

"I have just remembered," he began, "one of the men who came to my office had a tattoo on his right wrist."

"What did it look like?" Mark asked, reaching out for a writing pad.

Hugo closed his eyes trying to picture the tattoo, "It was in the shape of dragon that was curled around some sort of building, I couldn't make out what. I'm sorry, that's all I can tell you."

"It's a start, Hugo," Mark replied, finishing the quick sketch he was making on the pad before rising, "I'll leave you to get some rest now and pass this onto Steve and Ron, maybe they will have some luck with it."

¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬

Steve sat behind his desk, his head in his hands. It had been twenty-four hours since Jesse and Ellie had been kidnapped leaving him only 48 hours to find his best friend. Mark had phoned him with the information from Hugo but, so far, nothing had panned out on that and they were no closer to finding them. Steve was just about to reach out for his mug of coffee when the phone next to him rang.

Picking up the receiver, Steve barked, "Sloan."

"Lieutenant Sloan," came a smooth, heavily accented Eastern European voice in his ear, "It's so good to know that my tax dollars allow the police department to employ such charming detectives."

"What do you want, Nicolayev? I don't have time for the social niceties."

"I have some information about who shot Hugo Bordonov."


	4. Information Exchange

**THE GIRL NEXT DOOR******

**Chapter Four:  Information Exchange**

"Information?  What kind of information?" 

"It's reliable, if that's what you're worried about."

Steve _was_ worried about the reliability of any information coming from Nicolayev, but that worry paled in comparison to his worry about Jesse.  He and Ron had found no trace of the missing doctor and his neighbour or the missing containers.  They only had two days left in which to find them, and Steve tried to close his mind to what could take place if time ran out before that happened.  If he allowed himself to consider those scenarios, he knew he'd be useless as a detective.

"Tell me what you know," Steve demanded.

Nicolayev clucked his tongue in disapproval.  "Americans, always in a hurry.  No wonder you have so many heart attacks.  You should learn to have patience, Lieutenant, and relax."

Steve struggled to keep his temper in check.  "Thanks for the self-help tip, but my friend's life is at stake so I'm a bit more on edge than normal," he said, through clenched teeth.  "If you're done dispensing the health advice, maybe you can get to the reason for your call."

Sighing, Nicolayev said, "You win, Lieutenant.  I will tell you what I know but not over the phone.  We meet face to face so you can see I'm telling the truth."

"When and where?"  Steve hated having to play the man's game but was desperate for any information.

"Two hours.  I have some warehouses near the docks."  He named an area Steve was familiar with.  "In front of number 17.  And come alone."

"Are you coming alone?"

Nicolayev laughed.  "You have to show up to find out," he replied, ending the call.

Steve pulled the receiver away from his ear and glared at it for a moment.  Giving himself a mental shake, he listened for a dial tone then punched in a series of numbers.  "Ron?"  Steve didn't even bother to identify himself.  "How soon can you assemble a surveillance team?"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Hugo stared pensively at the ceiling frustrated by his inability to help in the search for Ellie.  Almost immediately after Doctor Sloan had left, he'd fallen asleep no doubt assisted by whatever was dripping through the IV in his arm.  Upon awakening a few hours later, he'd found himself alone just as he'd been so often during the past few weeks.  The sight of the policeman outside his door reminded him of just how much trouble he was in.  Hugo recalled Doctor Sloan telling him he'd have a guard on his door until Ellie and Jesse were returned and the containers found.  He shivered as a picture of Ellie and Jesse being dragged out of the restaurant flashed through his mind.

Stirring restlessly in the narrow bed, Hugo tried to get comfortable.  He was worried about Ellie and, he admitted to himself grudgingly, her new boyfriend too.  Even though he didn't like the fact she'd seemed to have found someone new so soon after their aborted wedding, he didn't wish the man any harm.  He'd never even meant for them to get involved in his problems.  All he'd wanted when he'd called Ellie was to hear a friendly voice.  If he hadn't been so tired from being on the run, he would've realized what a bad idea that was. 

Growing tired of looking at the ceiling, Hugo replayed his interview with Steve in his head.  The detective hadn't been very friendly, but he'd said up front his first priority was finding his friend and Hugo respected that.  He searched his memory for any other scrap of information that might help the police and FBI find Ellie and Jesse or the containers.  Nothing came to mind, but he figured it wouldn't hurt to give them permission to search his office at the import/export business.  Maybe there was something there they could use that he'd forgotten about.  Yawning, Hugo hoped Ellie and Jesse were okay and would be found soon.  He supposed he should care about finding the containers with the counterfeit money too, but those didn't seem very important anymore.  In fact, Hugo was beginning to wish he'd never laid eyes on them or their contents. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Jesse?"

Ellie's soft voice startled Jesse.  She'd been silent for so long he thought she'd finally fallen asleep.  He turned slightly so he could see her face.  _Damn, she's pale, _Jesse thought.  _I wish I had something to give her for the pain._

"What?  Do you want something to drink?  Some water?"

"Jesse, I'm sorry."

Jesse blinked.  "Sorry?  Sorry for what?"

"If I hadn't accepted your offer to go with me to meet Hugo, you wouldn't be trapped in this container and your restaurant wouldn't have gotten shot up.  I feel like this is my fault."

"Ellie, none of this is your fault."  Jesse hastened to reassure her.  "It's not the first time we've had to fix bullet holes at Bob's."  _Likely won't be the last either, _he thought wryly, mentally wincing at the prospect of the next round of insurance premiums.  "And I offered to come along because I wanted to support you.  If anyone's to blame for this mess, it's Hugo.  He's the one who got you involved, and it's all because of his gambling."

"I suppose you're right."

"I know I'm right."  Jesse moved toward the refrigerated container.  "So how 'bout something to eat?" he asked, examining the contents.

Half-heartedly, Ellie picked at the sandwich Jesse handed her.  "I really thought Hugo had gotten past his gambling problems," she sighed.

"You knew he had a gambling problem and were still going to marry him?"

"I knew Hugo liked to gamble," Ellie corrected him.  "That's different than knowing he's a compulsive gambler.  We talked about it after he proposed to me.  He promised me he would quit if that's what I wanted, and I told him it was.  I'd seen what he was like when he got on roll.  He'd be so distracted that nothing else mattered, and I didn't want to live like that."  She sighed again.  "I really thought he had quit.  I honestly don't know when he found time to gamble.  He was so attentive throughout our engagement and was involved with planning our wedding.  I can't believe I missed the signs."

"Maybe there weren't any signs to miss."

"What do you mean?"

"Somehow Hugo managed to hide all the signs from you.  Addicts can do that for a while.  That's how kids get away with using drugs or alcohol and their parents don't find out until it's too late." 

"I was so humiliated when Hugo left me standing at the altar in front of all our guests.  I couldn't believe he'd do something so cruel, but I guess in his own way he was trying to protect me."

"He ended up dragging you into his problems anyway," Jesse couldn't resist pointing out.

"I know, but I want to help him if I can.  Help him as a friend not as his wife."

_Wife._The word niggled at the back of Jesse's brain.  What was it their captors had said as he and Ellie were dragged out of Bob's?  Jesse searched his memory trying to recall.  Suddenly it came to him.  _Get our money or wifey and friend dies._

"They think you and Hugo are married," Jesse blurted out.

"What?"  Ellie was confused by the sudden shift in the conversation.

"The guys who grabbed us, they think you and Hugo are married.  As we were going out the door at Bob's, I heard the one say 'Get our money or wifey and friend dies.'  They evidently didn't hear about Hugo leaving you at the altar."

"Is that important?"

"I don't know.  It might be.  I wish I could tell Steve or Mark about it."

 Ellie fell silent again lost in thought.  "Jesse?"  she asked, quietly.

"Yes, Ellie?"

"They are going to find us aren't they?  I mean, before…"

Jesse gathered Ellie into his arms and held her as close as her injured elbow would allow.  "If I know Steve, and I do, he's doing whatever he can to find us.  He won't stop looking, trust me."  Jesse spoke with a confidence borne from a deep friendship and past experience.

Ellie sniffed but was apparently satisfied with his answer.  "So tell me," she said, shifting so she could peer up at Jesse.  "Why would a nice restaurant like yours have bullet holes that needed fixing anyway?"

Jesse smiled.  "Well, you see, there was this ex-con named Kurt Fallon, and he was trying to get Steve to kill him…"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Mark stood back and watched as Steve slipped the Kevlar vest on over his shirt.  Watching that simple act made the danger his son was putting himself in that much more real, but he knew protesting would be useless.  Steve had insisted on meeting Nicolayev alone despite Ron's earlier objections. 

_"I'm going with you to the meeting," Ron had announced._

_"No," Steve had replied without hesitation.  "Nicolayev said to come alone."_

_"But he didn't promise he'd come alone."_

_"This is not open for discussion, Ron.  If Nicolayev has information about Bordonov's shooting, I don't want to give him any reason to withhold it.  This may be the only chance we have of finding Jesse."_

_The two men had stared at each other for a long, tense moment.  Steve's posture had practically dared Ron to try and defy him by coming along.  It had been a battle of wills, but the FBI agent had finally nodded signalling he'd go along with Steve's decision.  Ron had made no other comment but handed Steve the protective vest with a look of his own that had clearly said Steve had better be wearing it when he left the command area._

Zipping a windbreaker up over the vest, Steve caught sight of his father standing near the surveillance truck.  He could read the worry written all over his face.  Walking over to him, he said, "Don't worry, Dad.  We'll get Jesse back."

"He's not the only one I'm worried about.  Please be careful, Steve."

"I will, Dad.  Nicolayev has no reason to hurt me."

"Steve," Ron called, "you'd better get going."

Giving a wave to indicate he'd heard, Steve looked at his dad once more.  "I'll be back soon.  We'll get to the bottom of this and, before you know it, Jesse will be eating us out of house and home again."

Mark couldn't help but smile at the mental picture Steve's words conjured up.  "You're right."

"I know I am."  Steve was relieved to see his father's mood lighten if only for an instant. 

The smile left Mark's face as he watched Steve walk in the opposite direction of the surveillance truck.  The command area was less than a half-mile from the warehouse but it might as well have been a thousand miles as far as Mark was concerned.  Being able to see Steve on the surveillance truck's multiple monitors only made him feel marginally better.  If this had been a movie, Mark was sure some appropriately spooky music would be playing in the background, but this wasn't a script being played out on some Hollywood back lot.  This was real life, and Steve was in the centre of the drama. 

Ron looked over and didn't miss the intense attention Mark was paying to the screens.  He kept quiet knowing nothing he said would ease the doctor's apprehension.  Instead, he spoke quietly into his headset repositioning a couple of his men.  Satisfied they were in the best possible places given the lack of cover, Ron fell silent as he watched Steve move toward warehouse number 17.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Steve approached the warehouse cautiously all of his senses on alert.  The area around the docks was unnaturally quiet and that made him uneasy.  He had expected more activity in the area since ships were always coming and going.  Steve resisted the urge to look around to see if he could spot Ron's men.  He knew Ron had assembled a highly trained group and the agents were under orders to stay out of sight unless the situation demanded they intervene. 

Without warning, Nicolayev stepped out of the shadows stopping just a few paces in front of Steve.  "You have come alone?" he asked.

"I said I would."  Steve's instincts were telling him something wasn't quite right, and he moved his hand slightly so he had better access to his gun if he needed it.  "Now tell me what kind of information you have about the Bordonov shooting."

Reaching inside his jacket, Nicolayev extracted an envelope from his pocket and held it out to Steve.  Before he had a chance to take it, a gunshot rang out shattering the quiet night.


	5. Ambush

> **THE GIRL NEXT DOOR**
> 
> **Chapter Five: Ambush**
> 
> Steve dove forward instinctively, tackling Nicolayev, burying him under his own form, listening to the percussion of the shot echo from warehouse wall to wall. The tackle must have knocked the wind out of him, because he was having a lot of trouble catching his breath. Nicolayev squirmed under him, struggling to rise, but he held him down forcefully, reaching across between them for the butt of his pistol. The movement awoke a burning blossom of pain low on his ribs and he stopped again, his breath squeezed from his chest. _Well, damn_. Now that he thought about it, he could remember having a little help with that tackle - something like a kick of a mule hurtling him forward and into Nicolayev. He must have stopped one. Thank God for Kevlar.
> 
> He reached more slowly for his gun, breathing in ragged, careful gasps, ear cocked for the next shot. Nothing so far, but they could just be waiting to see what the damage was. Now that the pain in his back had made itself known, it was pushing relentlessly at him, wrapping around his ribs and stabbing through them. Kevlar was a blessing - it had saved many a cop's life - but his real gratitude would be for the guy who figured out a way to absorb the impact so that when a vest stopped a bullet it didn't feel like somebody had taken a wide swing at you with a crowbar He curled his hand around his gun and forced Nicolayev to meet his eyes. "On my count of three," he hissed, as loudly as he dared. "The warehouse."
> 
> Nicolayev looked like he wanted to object, but Steve didn't give him a chance. "One" He sucked in a Spartan portion of air. "Two." He had his gun out of the holster and at the ready, hidden under his chest. "Three!" He swung up onto his knees, almost keeling over at the surprise thrust of white heat from one side of his back. He sensed Nicolayev scrambling into a crouching run, fired twice. He managed a shambling climb to his own feet, fired again. There was an answering shot and he tried to place it, but the empty echo among the buildings made it sound as if it was coming from everywhere at once. The next shot was easier to track: it plowed into the macadam at his feet, kept him moving forward, pushing Nicolayev in front of him. They slammed through the warehouse entry and a dark, damp quiet closed around them.
> 
> Steve braced himself just to the side of the door, gun cocked and ready, waiting, huffing sporadic puffs of air, trying to remember the trick of steady breathing. He let the wall take his weight at the shoulders, peered through the entrance into the yard. For the moment all was quiet. He noticed something lying on the scarred tar outside the warehouse, groaned inside. _The envelope.__ Just great. Wonder if it's worth making a run to nab it._ As if the sniper had read his mind, another shot pinged through the night, followed by another. Tiny shreds of paper danced in the air, settled. Steve swore quietly but emphatically, staring at the tattered mess of paper where the envelope had been. All right, well, Nicolayev would just have to tell him what was inside it. Quick as a snake, his right hand shot out and grasped Nicolayev's lapel, pulled him close.
> 
> It would have been an impressive demonstration of intimidation if his legs hadn't chosen that moment to protest sudden movement, dissolving underneath him and sliding him down the wall to deposit him ignominiously on his knees. His grasp on Nicolayev didn't loosen, and he brought him along to the floor.
> 
> "You are hit" Nicolayev's voice sounded fuzzy and faraway, then things sharpened again and he drew a more normal breath.
> 
> "My vest stopped it. It's just a bruise." _The mother of all bruises, from the feel of it._Hopefully he hadn't cracked anything._ Oh, well. Plenty of time to worry about that later._ He tightened his grip on the lapel and gave it a shake, his voice sharpening. "And buddy, you better not have set me up, or you'll be wishing that you were the one who stopped that bullet"
> 
> . . . . . . .
> 
> Mark stood riveted to the monitors. It was ridiculous, of course, to think that his vigilance would somehow keep everything under control and everyone safe, but he did feel that - that if he looked away for even a minute, terrible things would happen. He watched carefully as Steve entered the small yard between the warehouses, almost gasped with surprise when Nicolayev appeared suddenly from the shadows in front of him He blew out a soft breath of relief as he saw Nicolayev brandish an envelope. _Everything was going all right, then - this was all going to end peacefully._ His squeezed his eyes shut and massaged the lids. There was a smothered exclamation from Ron, and then suddenly everyone seemed to be moving at once. His eyes sprang back open in alarm.
> 
> "What happened? What - ?" He didn't really expect an answer. The command area was suddenly abuzz with activity, Ron barking questions into his head mike, the surveillance team feeding him quick answers. They were all doing what he would want them to be doing - taking care of the situation - he turned his eyes almost painfully back to the screen to see what had happened. His heart gave an anxious bump. Steve was lying on the ground, on top of Nicolayev. For a moment they were so still that he feared the worst, then he saw Steve lift his head and relief whooshed through of him. _Oh, thank God. I'm really getting too old for this, Steve. Have you ever thought about a career in accounting? _
> 
> He became peripherally aware of Ron's voice nearby and, his most urgent concerns settled, tried to listen more carefully, never taking his eyes from the screen.
> 
> "…can you tell me where the hell that shot came from? I want a lock on it!"
> 
> He saw Steve roll onto his knees in shooting position, saw his gun jerk as it fired. Nicolayev gathered himself into a half crouch and scuttled toward the door, hesitated.
> 
> "Well, somebody has to be able to tell! The angle, at least, should tell you something!"
> 
> Steve backed toward the warehouse door again, pushing Nicolayev none-too-gently before him. Mark winced as a short burst of bullets buried themselves near Steve's feet, hurrying him to the entrance. _Or maybe teaching.__ I always thought you'd make a fine teacher. _
> 
> "Look, you're telling me I have seven topflight men out there and they can't locate one, single sniper? I don't need history right now, I need results! I want somebody to figure out where that fire is coming from and to take the shooter out or, better yet, into custody!"
> 
> The warehouse door swung shut, blocking both Steve and Nicolayev from his sight. Mark continued to stare at the screen, as though the mere act of will would force it to show him what was unavailable by camera. He frowned slightly, registering something that had been nipping at the edges of his conscious observation. Something was funny about . . . that's it. Steve was limping. Of course, he had hit the pavement pretty hard . . . He reached up to rub at the furrows in his forehead. _Even a garbage man.__ Garbage man would be fine. Nice, steady work_ . . .
> 
> "Damn." He turned in surprise. He hadn't heard Ron come up behind him, saw that he was staring at the screen over his shoulder. "Phillips and Jasper - I want you on the ground and in that warehouse - find and secure Nicolayev and Sloan." Ron frowned at the image of the warehouse yard. "Off camera. We can't see a damn thing they're doing in there."
> 
> "But they're safer," Mark pointed out. "Out of the line of fire."
> 
> "Yeah . . . " Ron did not look cheered. "Maybe. I don't know. Seems to me like he could have taken them out a dozen times over, though, if he had a mind to. Almost like he was - pushing them into the warehouse. Herding them."
> 
> . . . . . .
> 
> "Me!" Nicolayev tried to dislodge Steve from his lapel. "You think I would be foolish enough to let someone fire a gun so close to me? You think maybe I have a wish for death?"
> 
> "Death wish," Steve corrected without thinking. "I think that a good sharpshooter wouldn't have any trouble missing you and getting me. Or -" _Damn. _A good sharpshooter wouldn't have any trouble hitting him either - and would know enough to aim for his head. After all, he was a cop alone on a high-risk job - what were the odds that he _wouldn't_ be wearing a vest?
> 
> He used the wall to force himself back to his feet, dragging Nicolayev with him and ignoring the protest from his back. "Come on -" he said abruptly, pushing Nicolayev in front of him. "We have to keep moving. Is there another way out of this warehouse?"
> 
> Nicolayev shrugged elegantly. "There is the dock, of course - one or two other doors, too, I think. I own them, but I do not memorize the floor plans. I leave that to my managers"
> 
> "Great." Steve glanced around hastily at the dusky interior. "A real hands-on kind of guy, huh? Let's try this way."
> 
> Nicolayev balked. "I do not see the need," he pointed out flatly. "In here we are safe from bullets. Why would we want to leave?"
> 
> "You mean aside from the fact that we can't stay here forever?" Steve turned him forcibly around and gave him a shove to get him started. "I'm not so sure we're safe at all. Stay as quiet as you can."
> 
> . . . . . . .
> 
> "Herding . . . ?" Mark turned his eyes back to the screen, though there wasn't much to see. The warehouse yard remained quiet. Oddly quiet, now that he came to think about it. Surely there should be some sort of activity? Even at this hour? He took a step closer to the screen as though he might be able to shake the truth out of it. "What are you saying? That it was some sort of setup? A trap? You think that Nicolayev . . . ?"
> 
> "Maybe Nicolayev" Ron shook his head. "Maybe somebody else. Look, Dr. Sloan, don't get yourself worked up - I don't know anything about what's going on here - I'm just trying a few different equations to put the pieces together. If they can find that sniper and bring him in alive, then we'll know a whole lot more."
> 
> There was a sudden burst activity among the agents and Mark swung back to the monitor, searching
> 
> Ron barked into his mike, "What was that about? Everybody okay? Sound off!" He gestured to the audio surveillance agent to flip the switch that would broadcast the sound, instead of limiting it to the headsets. Mark nodded his thanks.
> 
> "We're okay."
> 
> Mark could hear a voice he didn't really recognize crackle over the soundboard where the agent was adjusting the sound level.
> 
> "We were just trying to lower ourselves into the yard when they opened fire. More than one - from all directions. I have a feeling somebody doesn't want us down there"
> 
> "Yeah? Well I _do_ want you down there! See that two of you make it down and into that warehouse! The rest of you provide cover!"
> 
> Mark kept his eyes on the screen, mesmerized. The yard was quiet again, the bright bursts that indicated gunfire for the moment vanished. White scraps of - something - were standing out against the black pavement and he peered more closely, trying to identify them. He pointed. "Can you zoom in on that?"
> 
> Ron glanced over to see what he was indicating. "We can on the tape." He nodded to one member of the video surveillance team. "Pull the tape of the last few minutes, will you? I want to look at it on another screen while we wait."
> 
> They studied the tiny image while they waited for the tape to cue up. There was another round of gunfire, and Mark turned hastily away, moved his gaze to the agent working on the tape. He stuffed his hands into his pockets to hide their shaking.
> 
> "They had two hours, right?" he burst out suddenly. Ron didn't answer right away, and Mark could hear him checking in with his men after the latest round of fire. He followed his own train of thought. "To set things up, I mean. Steve met Nicolayev two hours after he received the call. So if it isn't Nicolayev . . . " He watched the tape spring to life on the screen. "And I'm not saying that it isn't. But if not - then how on earth did they know to get it into place in time?"
> 
> . . . . . . .
> 
> _There is someone else in here_. If Steve had ever been sure of anything, he was sure of that Not someone as in a dockworker or a forklift operator - someone sliding stealthily through the shadows, looking for them. Hunting them. The question was, why? It would sure be nice if someone would give him a clue - even a small clue - of what was going on here. The only good news was that a warehouse was a pretty good place to hide: plenty of tall stacks of boxes, plenty of dark corners.
> 
> They had decided against trying for the dock doors - too obvious, too likely to be watched - and were looking for a handy fire exit instead. With any luck, they could even set off an alarm. That might discourage their shadowy friend.
> 
> There was an intermittent popping sound, like someone had set off a string of firecrackers, and Steve automatically pushed Nicolayev to the floor. He frowned, holding him there. _Gunfire?__ Outside? But they were in here. Maybe Ron's men had taken out the sniper. ___
> 
> He tapped Nicolayev's back. "Stay here," he whispered. "I'm gonna check that out." He lifted his gun. At least he still had that with him.
> 
> Using the wall as a guide, he started toward where the sound seemed to be loudest. And made it about three steps.
> 
> Something slammed into him, low on the ribs, right where the bullet had struck him, dropping him to his knees, the world humming away from him. He felt his gun yanked from his grasp, the chill of the concrete floor slap his cheek, saw a familiar pair of three hundred dollar shoes hurry past his face. His ribs were on fire, he was half-blind with pain, but none of that could begin to compete with a third sensation. He was mad as hell.
> 
> He reached out for one of the expensive shoes and snagged a pant leg instead, pulled with all his might He heard a satisfying smack of flesh hitting concrete, the rough skitter of his gun sliding across the floor. Resisting the urge to feel for his back and make sure it was still there, he dragged the pant leg toward him, rolled himself on top of it and pinned it to the floor, feeling for something on his belt behind him.
> 
> "You've got to watch it, Nicolayev," he ground out, coughing to clear his throat around whatever seemed to have settled deep in his lungs and giving a satisfied grunt as his hand rested on what he was looking for. "Running makes you look kind of guilty. I know that's not the impression you were going for"
> 
> Nicolayev struggled under him. "If someone wants to kill you, then why should I stay and be in danger, too? I told you the truth before, but I have no interest in dying."
> 
> "What makes you think they're trying to kill me? Your conscience so clear? No enemies to speak of?" Steve managed to subdue one wrist and encircled it with a handcuff, snicking it closed. Before Nicolayev could catch on, he slid the other cuff around his own wrist and pushed the lock home on that one, too.
> 
> "There." He rolled off of Nicolayev and sat up, wheezing. "Since you're the one who wanted to see me so badly, I know you'd hate for us to be separated. So okay - you called this little _tête à tête_ - you have my undivided attention. Keeping it nice and quiet, I want to know what was in that envelope, and anything - and I mean ANYTHING - you know about the possible whereabouts of my friend."
> 
> Nicolayev answered long and volubly in his native tongue, and Steve gave him a wolfish smile in response He didn't understand a word he'd heard, but he was pretty sure of the basic content and that it would have been enough to make a Russian sailor blush. He leaned back against the wall, feeling for the sore spot on his back, one ear cocked for any signs of their pursuer.
> 
> "Yeah," he agreed, wincing a little as he found the bruised area. "My sentiments exactly."


	6. Further Complications

> **THE GIRL NEXT DOOR**
> 
> **Chapter Six: Further Complications**
> 
> The air in the container was cool and fresh but the conditioner unit was noisy and made sleep virtually impossible. Jesse didn't think he had ever felt so tired when he had done so little.
> 
> Ellie had been sleeping for a long time, by his watch a little over four hours, and Jesse knew that unless he woke her or she moved and the pain in her arm disturbed her she would stay that way for almost as long again. They had been in their metal tomb for more than a day, and his watch told him it was a little after two in the afternoon.
> 
> Somewhere in the back of his mind Jesse was sure he remembered reading about a French guy who lived in a cave for . . . no he couldn't remember how long, but when he came out he had increased the length of his day to 26 hours. Even now, when he had plenty of time to think about it, Jesse really couldn't see the point to that at all.
> 
> Realising that he was getting hungry again Jesse stood up and quietly made his way across to the refrigerator. He was trying very hard not to eat everything and leave nothing for Ellie, but it wasn't easy. The food had been very nice, not that it mattered in one way, they were, after all, a captive audience, but the bread had been real instead of plastic, and the fillings tasty and well, filling. Grabbing a small bottle of orange juice off the door and a packet of sandwiches which said BLT on the front of it Jesse closed the door and went back to where he had been sitting keeping a friendly watch over his sleeping companion. If only there wasn't a death threat hanging over them it might have been nice to spend some time alone with Ellie and get to know her a little better.
> 
> . . . . . . . . .
> 
> "I don't care how difficult it is, I need someone to get inside that warehouse, and he should be there ten minutes ago! If you can't find them then use the dogs, that's what we brought them for." Ron was almost barking himself as he yelled into his microphone and Mark gently touched him on the arm.
> 
> "It's not their fault, Ron, we need to let them act on their own instincts, they're the ones in the line of fire."
> 
> Ron swallowed down the hastily formed retort which had a lot to do with the fact that there was no 'we' involved as far as he was concerned. He knew that Mark had never worked for the FBI and had very little sympathy with their methods; the elder man was making allowances he didn't think he could make if his only surviving family member had just disappeared into a deserted warehouse in a hail of bullets. "No, I know, but dammit, Mark, I hate being here, when I should be there!" Ron looked back at the monitor as if it would tell him something different to what he already knew, but the screens were silent and still and he saw Mark distance himself mentally from the situation just for a moment.
> 
> _Steve, you could just run your restaurant, go to the gym, jog along the beach and I would never ever call you a bum, or complain about odd socks in the dryer, or the line around your bath tub, just open that door and come out, please, Son._
> 
> . . . . . . . .
> 
> The sound of gunfire woke Jesse from his slumber and, as he jolted back to reality, he saw Ellie do the same and cry out in agony as her elbow protested.
> 
> "It's ok, careful, shhh, it's ok." Jesse saw the tears rush to Ellie's eyes, and he knew that they were caused both by the pain she was in as well as the awfulness of their situation.
> 
> "What was that noise? It … it sounded like guns." Ellie tried to swallow down her fear, but she was the most frightened she had ever been her entire life, and she had no idea whether she was ever going to get out of her predicament alive.
> 
> "Yeah, I thought that too. It sounded a little way off, but, well, it's kinda hard to work out where any noises are coming from in here, apart from the air conditioning, which is seriously getting on my nerves." He had hoped to get a smile and he did, albeit a small one.
> 
> "Jesse, is there a reason you are sitting way over there?" Ellie looked at the gap between them and hoped that he would move closer.
> 
> "I didn't want to disturb you, but I can move if you would like." As he spoke he did just that and was soon making himself comfortable on the sleeping bag next to her. "There, I'm not hurting you am I?" Jesse made sure that he wasn't anywhere near touching her bad arm, but he knew that the pain from it would make her tense and radiate outwards so he didn't want to knock her anywhere.
> 
> "No, no, you're not, but to be honest, I would rather have some extra pain and a cuddle than just the pain on its own." Ellie snuggled a little closer to him, enjoying both the warmth of his body and the feeling of him next to her.
> 
> "I wish I had something I could give you to help your arm, but I don't have anything on me at all." The gunfire had disappeared and Jesse felt Ellie relax a little in his arms, he had been glad to keep the conversation going if it kept her mind off of what was happening outside. He wanted to be rescued, but if no one knew where they were then gunfire wasn't a good thing.
> 
> "Jesse?" Ellie had been quiet for a while, just enjoying the sensation of the hug she had asked for.
> 
> "Mmmm," Jesse almost didn't want to answer, he knew that they were still in danger, but the world around them was quiet again now _apart from that darn air conditioning system_ and he liked the feel of her in his arms.
> 
> "Do you like me?"
> 
> "Um, yeah, I do," Jesse wasn't really sure how to answer the question, "why do you ask?"
> 
> "I really like you, and I know that this is probably really forward and totally inappropriate, but I've never been locked in a container before, and if I'm going to die then I need to tell you some things first." The words had got faster and faster as she had spoken and in the end Jesse had gently placed his finger against her lips to stop her talking. To her surprise, and she guessed, Jesse's too, Ellie kissed the finger before starting to talk again.
> 
> "I … I watch you, you know, when you are running through the grounds, sometimes when you're coming home from work, I hoped that maybe one day we … we could have gone out together." A blush rushed up her face and Ellie stopped talking.
> 
> "Ellie, you don't have to," Jesse still wasn't sure what to say, he guessed that although what was happening to them was very real it was also an almost artificial situation and things that would usually take weeks or months might very well be dealt with over the next twenty four hours or so. He thought for a moment and then began to speak again. "I do like you, but, well, it's not long since I came out of a long term relationship either, I guess I was planning to take things slowly for a little while."
> 
> "And if we die in here? Wouldn't it be nice to know that we had at least done this?" She turned carefully in Jesse's arms and put her lips against his, she had known that they would be soft and warm and as she kissed him her whole body responded to the feelings he gave her.
> 
> For a brief second Jesse had been caught unawares, but then, still making sure not to touch her arm he began to kiss her back. Ellie was beautiful, fun, and . . . a wonderful kisser, the thoughts stopped and nothing else mattered to each of them but the moment . . .
> 
> . . . . . . . .
> 
> "So, have you finished?" Steve was still having trouble breathing, and he had a feeling that the bullet had done more damage than he thought at first.
> 
> "Finished what, Lieutenant?" Nicolayev looked at Steve and then down at the handcuffs which joined them together. How could he have been so stupid as to let himself get in this situation? The Koreans who had sent the money to LA were known to him, and he was most definitely known to them. It had been entertaining to string that stupid pup Hugo along and know that he was spending the money from the Far East. Trouble was they had spies everywhere, and they knew exactly what he had done. The fact that he didn't have the money made no difference to them, he'd tried to get it and that was a killing offence.
> 
> "Swearing at me in Russian." Steve looked at the bookie joined to him at the wrist and wished that there was another way to contain him. Until this very moment he hadn't realised just how much cheap aftershave the man was wearing, and combined with the fact that breathing was definitely becoming an art form both were making his head swim.
> 
> "Lieutenant, you have such a negative opinion of me, I am surprised at you."
> 
> "Yeah, right. Listen, I know that we aren't alone in here, wherever here is. We need to get ourselves somewhere safe as soon as possible and that means finding the back door to this dump."
> 
> "Lieutenant, I am disappointed, this is one of my best units, big, airy, light and clean."
> 
> "Light? I guess someone closed the curtains when they left last night then!" Steve could just about make out the outline of some of the other things in the warehouse, although his new buddy and pal was clear in his eye line.
> 
> "Lieutenant," Steve was getting heartily sick of being called by his rank the entire time, "if you really do want to get out of here alive, then first of all you need to stop talking, because each time you open your mouth you get a little paler, and then you need to let me lead the way towards the back of this room and maybe we can get out onto the dock. We have been in here a good ten minutes now, and I think that may be nine minutes too long . . . This way."
> 
> "And you told me you didn't know the floor plan!" Steve smiled at him, wished he hadn't and then let out a desperate groan as he felt himself being helped to his feet. Steadying himself, physically and mentally he leant over to his right and picked up his gun, relieved that it was he and not Nicolayev who had been nearest to it.
> 
> "Funnily enough, Lieutenant, I understand why you have attached yourself to me, but don't think it makes us anywhere near friends."
> 
> "Oh, trust me, I am real fussy who I consider to be my friend." Just the word made him think of Jesse again, even in a situation as bleak as this was he knew that he would be upbeat and cheerful, Steve also wished he was here, because he could sure do with some of those painkillers he knew Jesse always carried with him.
> 
> . . . . . . . .
> 
> "Wow," Jesse wasn't sure what else to say, the kiss had been far more passionate than he had been expecting, but then he hadn't really expected to be kissed at all.
> 
> "Yes, I would go with that, Jesse, thank you." Ellie's eyes were shining, and her face was a little flushed. Although he didn't think it was possible she moved closer to him and began to talk again.
> 
> "I am so sorry that you are here."
> 
> "You are? Do you always kiss people who you wished weren't here?" Jesse knew what she meant, but somehow he had a feeling that it was very important to keep things as light as possible.
> 
> "No, silly, you know what I mean." Ellie wanted to talk, needed to talk, somehow the pain that was taking over her entire being didn't seem quite so bad when she had something to say.
> 
> "Yeah, I do, but if they had taken just you and not me I would have been totally distracted until you were found, at least this way I can keep a close eye on you. I know that your arm is really hurting you, there is nothing I can do about that, but any other way I can help."
> 
> "Shhh, you are helping, more than you could ever know. Just looking at your kind face, your beautiful eyes, that crazy hairstyle you have, somehow the pain doesn't matter quite so much."
> 
> "And they say the British are boring!" Jesse gently touched her hair, it was a soft brown and fell in delicate curls to just below her shoulders "your hair is beautiful, not as crazy as mine, all of you is beautiful." He felt embarrassed, but Ellie was right, if only one of them survived this there would be things they wished they had said, and he had always thought her to be beautiful.
> 
> . . . . . . . .
> 
> The feel of his phone vibrating in his pocket took Mark out of his musings about his son; he had been able to escape into his mind, preferring memories of a happy child on the sand to the thought of an injured cop in a cold and damp warehouse.
> 
> "Mark Sloan, oh hi, Cheryl . . . oh, I've seen her ... yeah, I would say so, look we're at the command centre just a little way from the warehouse, Steve will have left details on his desk someplace, bring her here . . . no, I'm sure he'll hate it, but I can deal with that . . . yeah, bye." Mark folded his phone down and slipped it back into his pants, as he looked up again he saw Ron looking at him, his dark eyes hard as flint.
> 
> "So, who is coming here? And why do I get the feeling that I am the he who is gonna hate it?"
> 
> "Apparently, Hugo decided that he really needed to tell Ellie's mother where her daughter was, not a sensible idea, Cheryl now has a woman who she described as 'Margaret Thatcher on speed' refusing to leave the station until she is either, and I quote, 'reunited with her daughter, or face to face with the dolt who let her be taken in the first place.' It appears, though, that Hugo failed to mention where he was, or that he is the dolt in question."
> 
> "Mark, she can't come here, even having you here compromises the operation, to have, who did you say? Never mind, you'll just have to appease her and send her back to wherever she came from," Ron suddenly thought of something else, "without introducing her to me first."
> 
> Mark shook his head and returned his gaze to the monitors he had been avoiding for so long. "Why is nothing happening? There hasn't been any gunfire for a few minutes, why aren't your guys going in?" He looked back and Ron and could tell from the tall agent's face that there was something going on that he didn't know about.
> 
> "We can't go in."
> 
> "Why ever not, Steve is in there, you don't think he's alone and you're doing nothing to get him out." Mark was aware that his voice was gaining an edge of hysteria and he fought for control.
> 
> "We brought one of our explosives dogs with us, Mark, the place is wired."
> 
> . . . . . . . .
> 
> The door that Steve had silently prayed would lead outside turned out to be a connecting doorway from one warehouse to another. The knowledge that they would have to go across another wide-open space, armed but still feeling unprotected, hit him hard and he slowed up so much that Nicolayev, without meaning to, pulled on him suddenly and he was unable to stop himself from falling to the ground.
> 
> "Arghh!" The cry of pain was loud enough to echo and Steve tensed up, waiting for the bullets that would surely end his life, nothing happened though and he was pulled to his feet unceremoniously. That did cause something to happen, a sharp, instantly debilitating pain invaded the left side of his body and left him struggling so hard to breathe that Nicolayev actually stood in front of Steve so he could lean against him while the Russian held him up. As he did so the sound of a door closing somewhere echoed through the warehouse and both men knew they had to find cover immediately.
> 
> Cheslav Nicolayev looked round anxiously, he had to get out of the line of fire, and he had to get this cop there too. Not out of choice, the guy could die right here for all he cared, but they were attached and so it became a necessity. Looking around again he saw something, something big and he made his way towards it. If it was as huge as it looked from a distance then they must be able to at least hide behind it until the danger was past.
> 
> . . . . . . . .
> 
> The second kiss that they shared wasn't quite as unexpected as the first, but it was just as enjoyable. Jesse ran his fingers into Ellie's hair, concentrating on keeping his hands there and away from her arm. They were just relaxing into each others embrace again when they heard a noise which chilled them both to the bone and made them freeze in terror.
> 
> The door at the end of their prison, the small man sized door which was cut into the container entrance where the lorry had deposited them was, very slowly, opening.
> 
> Jesse carefully helped Ellie to her feet, indicating for her to keep quiet. Then once she was standing upright he whispered to her, "You need to stay hidden behind the refrigerator, ok? But when I call, no matter how it hurts, you have to run." He received a nod as an answer and then she made her way to do as she had been told.
> 
> Jesse looked around him wildly, needing a weapon, something to give them a few moments to get out of their jail. His eyes locked on the pail they had been using as a toilet and he took the lid off it and then moved so that he was down behind the door as it finished opening.
> 
> . . . . . . . .
> 
> "Yes, well, I'm sure that you meant well, but somehow I don't think that a doctor is going to be able to give me the type of information I need." The words were said politely, but forcefully, in a very British accent.
> 
> "Ma'am, Doctor Sloan isn't just a doctor," Cheryl sincerely hoped that she wouldn't be asked to explain that statement, she was very fond of the man, but had no real idea what his official remit was. Cheryl was saved from having to say anything further however, as she saw Mark, the picture of friendly calm, coming towards them.
> 
> "Mrs Fortescue, how nice to see you again." Mark smiled as he spoke and Cheryl wondered whether he had heard the English woman's outburst.
> 
> "Do I know you?" Lucinda Fortescue was momentarily caught unawares as she tried to work out who the man in front of her was.
> 
> "Yes, we met, albeit briefly, when you were visiting with your daughter, and I was helping a friend to move into the neighbouring condo. I'm Doctor Mark Sloan, I am a friend of Doctor Jesse Travis."
> 
> "Oh, yes, yes, of course, I am so sorry, thank you." Lucinda dismissed Cheryl with a wave of the hand and the female detective, after pulling a face at Mark, made a hurried and very relieved exit, heading over to where she could see Ron Wagner talking with another agent, so she could get some up-to-date information on her partner's whereabouts.
> 
> "Why don't we go and sit in my car, the area where the agents are working is restricted, and so we can't go there." Mark put his arm behind her and gently guided her in the direction he wished her to go. He knew it took him away from his only contact with his son, but this woman was worried about her daughter and maybe he could help her while taking his mind off his own problems for a while.
> 
> . . . . . . . .
> 
> Jesse pulled the bucket back so that he had a good shot when he heard a voice.
> 
> "Jess . . . no." Steve saw a flash of something and recognised the face of his best friend being somehow attached to it. He called out, using up more of his precious air and heard something clatter to the floor.
> 
> "Steve! Oh, yuk." Jesse hopped from one foot to the other and managed somehow to stop himself getting wet, or worse. He left the pail where it was and moved over to where his friend was steadying himself against the side of the unit. "Am I glad to see you, and your friend, whoever he is."
> 
> "Yeah, me . . . too, let me introduce . . . you . . .. to . . . Cheslav . . . Nicolayev." Steve's words were getting fainter and further apart as he continued to speak, and Jesse suddenly aware that his friend was injured moved a little closer to him. He recognised the sounds in Steve's words, the trouble he was having catching his breath and, though he would have to examine him first, he was pretty sure that he had at least one broken rib and possibly, though he hated to even think it, a punctured lung. Steve had gathered a little more breath and carried on speaking. "General all . . . round good guy . . . and Hugo's . . . bookie."
> 
> "Steve . . .'
> 
> "You, you are responsible for getting us into this, and letting Hugo get into debt, I HATE YOU!" Ellie, suddenly presented with someone to let her anger and anguish out against, launched at Cheslev from behind the fridge, punching him with her good arm and causing Steve to be jolted as well.
> 
> "Arghh . . . Ellie . . . no."
> 
> The sound of pain in Steve's voice stopped her in her tracks and Ellie backed off immediately, "Sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry." She turned away, tears rushing to her eyes and Jesse was torn, not knowing who to go to first.
> 
> Making the decision that Ellie could just be seated and then dealt with later Jesse put his arm around her, led her back to the sleeping bag and helped her into a sitting position. He kissed her tenderly on the top of the head and turned back towards Steve.
> 
> "Jesse . . . help . . . I . . . have . . . to . . . " Steve couldn't speak anymore but he knew how to help that, he reached round and undid the Velcro on his Kevlar vest as Jesse cried out.
> 
> "Steve, no!" The release of the pressure around Steve's chest didn't give him the reprieve he wanted, instead it increased the agony he was experiencing and, without another sound, he fell to the floor, finally unaware of the pain he was in.


	7. Improvisation

****

> **THE GIRL NEXT DOOR**
> 
> **Chapter Seven: Improvisation**
> 
> Hugo came slowly awake and blinked against the surrounding darkness. His mind was fuzzy from sleep and the drugs that we're being fed into his system via the IV. But when one of the shadows shifted, a rush of adrenaline shot through him, bringing his mind to instant, heart-pounding wakefulness.
> 
> For several moments, Hugo could do little more than stare in stunned fascination, trying to deny what his eyes were trying to tell him. There was someone else in the room with him. "Who's there?" he called into the darkness, his voice low and more afraid than he liked.
> 
> He felt for the bedside lamp, all the while mentally trying to squash the nearly paralyzing fear that was building within him. His fingers bumped something round and filled with liquid. It fell to the floor with a plastic slosh before bouncing and then landing with a muted thump against something solid.
> 
> The shadows shifted, and Hugo forgot how to breathe. And then, suddenly, the darkened form stepped into faint light and resolved into the deep blue shirt and white shoulder insignia of a Los Angeles police officer's uniform.
> 
> "Oh, it's you." He wilted with relief. "You scared me nearly half to death."
> 
> "Just checking out the room." The policeman continued forward, and his facial features moved briefly into the light.
> 
> Hugo's blood ran cold. The place that he'd last seen those eyes flashed sickeningly to mind. It was at Dr. Travis' restaurant. He would never forget that malevolent glare, or the sneering voice that had issued demands before Travis and Ellie were taken.
> 
> "Are you sure you're okay?" Darkness enveloped the man again as he continued on toward the bed with an arm extended.
> 
> Every instinct in Hugo's body screamed that he should get up and run away as fast as he could. But that wasn't an option. He knew that his injured leg would not hold him, and that the pair of crutches that he'd been given earlier in the evening were leaning against the wall near the bathroom door. Meanwhile, the other man was closing in and all that he could think was what a failure he had been in life, that it was a shame that he was going to die this way. He'd brought it all on himself. If by some small miracle he managed to survive this, he would never, ever gamble again. He'd get help, he'd do whatever it took.
> 
> Then Ellie's face flashed through his mind -- her smiling and happy when they'd discussed their plans to marry, and then the absolute terror that had shown on her face when she'd been kidnapped from that BBQ joint. Even Travis' fear, and the worry of Travis' friends made an impact on his conscience. It was bad enough that he'd let himself down by his cowardly behavior, but he'd spread that to others. _He_ had to make it right. He couldn't leave that burden to someone else.
> 
> With a sudden cry, he brought his arm up, the bedside lamp clasped in his hand, and with a quick motion smacked it to the side of the phony policeman's head. Surprised by the attack, the other man stumbled sideways into the bed and tumbled to the floor. Hugo heard him moving sluggishly around, but didn't take time to look. He tore at the guard rail on the opposite of the bed and somehow managed to operate the release. It lowered more quickly than he'd expected and nearly dumped him bodily to the floor. He managed to catch himself before landing too roughly on his injured leg.
> 
> Grabbing the crutches, he started toward the door. A shadow rose up in his peripheral vision as his attacked stumbled up from the floor and dove at him. Hugo swung reflexively, absorbing the sickening contact as the crutch slammed into the other man.
> 
> He didn't wait to see if the man got up, but screamed bloody murder as he hobbled his way out of the room. Chaos descended as doctors, nurses and security came on the run. In the midst of the confusion, Hugo slipped quietly out of the hospital.
> 
> **. . . **
> 
> Nicolayev had all of half a second to utter a swear word in his native tongue before he was dragged toward the floor by Sloan's dead weight. He had made an attempt to catch him, to try to break his own fall, but the man had dropped away from him and he'd never been able to compensate for the momentum that took him down as well.
> 
> The cop landed with one side to the floor. His gun ricocheted across the small space toward the wall opposite where he had fallen, and effectively out of Nicolayev's immediate reach. His eyes narrowed as he tried to ascertain whether the other occupants of the room had noticed the object that slid into the shadow of a stack of blankets along the wall. Deciding that they were too shocked by Sloan's collapse to notice much of anything else, he quietly began to make plans.
> 
> "What is it that I can do?" He asked as the young man hurried forward and began to work over Sloan with obvious skill.
> 
> The younger man glanced past the handcuffs then speared him with a suspicious look before looking back down at his friend. The harshness in his gaze relented just slightly. "Tell me what happened," he said, continuing to go about his work. He quickly began to loosen the belt at Sloan's waist and pulled the shirt out. He then went to work on the buttons.
> 
> "The vest saved him from a bullet somewhere in the back," Nicolayev offered, he gestured toward the area that had seemed to cause the policeman the most pain. "Then later, while we ran here, something happened. He became very pale and his breathing became more difficult." He added mentally that he thought Sloan was a dead man, that at his earliest opportunity he meant to find the keys to the handcuffs which still bound them together. And immediately after that he would be getting that gun and getting out of there. Perhaps the addition of another hostage would sweeten the pot enough that the Koreans might forgive him a few past indiscretions.
> 
> The only response Nicolayev got to the words that he had spoken aloud was a nod as the doctor lifted the material of the wind breaker, the Kevlar vest and the shirt which Sloan wore. An ugly area of bruising was immediately obvious beneath the skin low on his side. It looked angry and painful and for a moment Nicolayev almost pitied the man.
> 
> "Steve, buddy, you're going to be okay. I promise." The doctor began to murmur to himself as he carefully ran his hands gently around the damaged area and then along Sloan's back with a little more pressure. "I'm just glad you're not going to be awake for this."
> 
> The doctor moved around until he was at Sloan's head, then placed his hands on either side. "Help me roll him," he ordered. "Slow and gentle," he added.
> 
> Nicolayev did as he was told, and between the two of them they rolled the downed man onto his back, while the doctor held his head and neck stabilized. Once he was settled, the young man surprised him by calling toward the woman who was crying softly.
> 
> She blinked and looked at the doctor with a look half between fear and guilt. Nicolayev did not believe that the young man would find any help from that quarter.
> 
> "Ellie, I need your help." He spoke to her again, more gently, but still with an urgency in his tone.
> 
> "W-what can I do?" she asked, then sniffled. A surprising alertness had come back into her eyes, and Nicolayev found something more to admire. Perhaps this young blonde doctor had learned something of the art of dealing with people.
> 
> "I need you to grab a new bottled water and pour 3/4's of it out. Then bring it over here with one of those straws."
> 
> "Okay." The woman didn't hesitate, she immediately got up from atop the sleeping bag and went to do his bidding.
> 
> While he waited for the woman, the doctor began to go through Sloan's pockets. Nicolayev held his breath. Was the young man going to find the handcuff keys? He resisted an audible sigh of relief when only the pocket knife was revealed. By then the woman was approaching with the items he'd asked for.
> 
> "What are you doing?" the woman asked, echoing the question that had also settled in Nicolayev's mind.
> 
> "He's got a couple fractured ribs and internal injuries. I suspect he also needs a chest tube." He looked about the small prison as he spoke. "I'll need some tape."
> 
> Nicolayev wanted to roll his eyes in pity, but he found that he was thus far impressed by the young man's resourcefulness, and discovered that some small part of him truly wanted to help. He seemed so intent on wanting to help his friend. And doing what he could would be a gesture of good will that would no doubt cause the younger man to let down his guard. He gestured toward the conditioning unit that sat in the corner of the room. Some of the wires being routed beneath it were covered in layers and layers of black electrical tape. The grateful light that shone briefly in the young doctor's eyes made the small subterfuge worthwhile.
> 
> Nicolayev watched in fascination as the doctor spoke encouragingly to the unconscious man as he seemed to count along his ribs before making an incision in his side. When the doctor completed the task of assembling a small valve system with a bottle with a small amount of water, a straw and electrical tape, Nicolayev complimented him. "That was very resourceful. You must be a very good doctor."
> 
> "I had a good teacher," the young man murmured, fiddling with the bottle, making sure it was just the way he wanted it. "I learned this particular trick from his father." He nodded toward Sloan's unconscious form.
> 
> "And now that procedure just might save his son." Nicolayev chuckled in appreciation. "A very Russian irony. But there are other problems which must be attended."
> 
> The doctor didn't look up, but continued to monitor Sloan's condition. "Like we're not going to be able to move him? Like maybe we should leave him behind? It isn't going to happen."
> 
> "Yes, those are the ones," Nicolayev admitted. As the young man did not seem inclined to leave his friend's side, there was going to be no opportunity for Nicolayev to find the handcuff key on his own. He was going to have to convince them to work with him.
> 
> "We could hide him beneath the blankets there in the corner," he offered, hoping to at the very least get closer to the area where the gun was located. The weapon could prove useful in many ways. For instance, to get the key he so needed. Also, though he had slipped something into the door to prevent it from relocking, he did not want to go back out into that warehouse without a weapon.
> 
> He continued to work on the doctor. "You have done what you could here with the tools that you have. But I suspect that he will still need more than what you can manage in this small room. That tape, for example. There is the risk of infection, is there not? Or fever - already he is very pale and breathes shallowly. I noticed that there is not much water left in the refrigerator. . . . "
> 
> The younger man looked up at him then, the bloom of anger visible. And then his expression changed and he glanced downward at his friend. He looked back up and opened his mouth to speak.
> 
> **. . .**
> 
> Mark found it difficult to focus completely on what Lucinda was telling him about her daughter's courtship with Hugo. Though he knew speaking about those things helped to calm her with regard to her missing daughter, his mind and heart were back there in the warehouse with his own son. A sudden thought occurred to him.
> 
> "How did you manage to shake the police guard that was assigned to you?" he asked.
> 
> Lucinda gave him a look which suggested that she hadn't always been so much the proper lady. "I grew up with bodyguards and nannies, Dr. Sloan. I have some experience in the art of losing tails."
> 
> Mark chuckled at the image that brought to mind. "I'm sure Cheryl - Detective Banks - took care of notifying him of what's happened."
> 
> Lucinda shrugged, obviously unconcerned with such things. "I would much prefer to have my daughter back safely."
> 
> Mark sobered. "I know." He wanted his son back safely as well. The vibrating of his phone interrupted anything more that he might have said. He raised an apologetic hand in Lucinda's direction as he answered it.
> 
> He frowned as Cheryl's voice came on the line. His eyes widened with surprise at the news she had to impart. Quickly thanking her, he ended the call and turned to his companion.
> 
> "We've got to go back inside," he announced. "The guard that was with Hugo is dead, and another man who was found wearing his uniform has been taken into custody. Hugo is missing."


	8. Fancy Meeting You Here

> **THE GIRL NEXT DOOR**
> 
> **Chapter Eight: Fancy Meeting You Here**
> 
> Mark hurried back to the command post at a pace that belied his years, vaguely aware that Mrs Fortescue had been stopped by an agent at the perimeter. Only his innate courtesy and parental fellow-feeling had allowed his attention to be torn so long from the warehouse where his son's fate still hung in the balance, and now he could brook no more delays.  
  
As he entered, his eyes were drawn irresistibly to the bank of monitors, searching eagerly for some positive sign, if not a glimpse of Steve himself, but the array showed a disappointing lack of activity. Ron was talking intently on the phone, so he caught Cheryl's attention.  
  
"Have you made contact with Steve?" he asked hopefully, his heart thick and solid in his chest as he read the answer immediately in her despondent expression.  
  
"The bomb squad's ten minutes out," she replied encouragingly, wishing she had something more reassuring to offer, knowing that as difficult as she was finding the delay, the waiting must be much worse for the anxious father in front of her.  
  
Mark quickly filled her in on the news from the hospital and, with a grimace of apology, on Mrs Fortescue's current status, passing the inconvenient buck right back. As Cheryl left to rescue her former charge, Mark seated himself in front of the monitors, his back rigid and tense, and only his eyes moving, roving ceaselessly over the image of the warehouse and its environs, hating the enforced inaction. The only useful thing he had to offer was an analysis of the situation and, with grim discipline, he forced his mind away from contemplation of the danger engulfing his son to focus on slicing and dicing the ingredients of the case so far, mentally tossing them into the air to examine them from all angles.  
  
He'd made little progress before Ron closed up his cell phone, approaching the monitors, the frown on his face echoing the frustration Mark was experiencing. However, his first words were meant to console.  
  
"It's been quiet. There's been no more shooting."  
  
Mark nodded, appreciating the consideration, but he found the silence more ominous than comforting. "We have to warn Steve about the explosives; there must be some way we can get a message to him," he pleaded.   
  
Ron held up a placating hand although he sympathised with Mark's urgency. "The bomb squad should be here soon, and we'll get him out, but we have another problem on our hands right now. Somebody just tried to kill Hugo at the hospital."  
  
"I know; it doesn't make sense. None of this makes any sense," Mark burst out in frustration.   
  
Several people turned to look at him, and he knew he'd better control his reactions better or risk being dismissed as overly emotionally involved.  
  
Steadying his voice, he introduced the first topic bothering him. "Look, for starters, Jesse and Ellie were taken as leverage against Hugo, we've been presuming by the North Koreans, in an effort to force him to give back the counterfeit money. Why would they try to kill him now? It can't be to silence him, he's been in our custody for too long for it to be worth it. Why kill the man you believe is the only way to get your money back? In our concern for Jesse and Ellie we've been missing the important point. Who has the missing money? Not the North Koreans or they wouldn't have bothered with hostages. There has to be another party involved, a rogue element, and they would be the ones to stand to gain by killing Hugo."  
  
Ron nodded agreeably. "Well, we captured the man at the hospital. He's got a broken leg and concussion, but we'll be able to question him soon."  
  
Mark was relieved that something had finally gone their way. "I'm betting either he has the money or is working for the man that does."  
  
"We've been so busy reacting to their moves we haven't given much thought to the logic of the situation," Ron remarked thoughtfully.  
  
"Maybe that was the point," Mark commented, almost to himself. At Ron's curious glance, he tried to explain the misgivings he was feeling inside. "Why the whole set up here -- the shooter, the explosives?"  
  
"I presumed they wanted to prevent Nicolayev from handing his information to Steve."
> 
> "It's possible," Mark conceded. "But why not just shoot him? Why the elaborate ambush and the explosives? That's also presuming Nicolayev is on the up and up - he doesn't strike me as the good Samaritan type. What did he stand to gain by helping Steve? I'd give a lot to know whose side he's on."  
  
"Well, maybe it was just a trap to get Steve here," Ron suggested.  
  
"Again, why? He's no threat to anyone; it's not like he'd got a lot of leads on this case."  
  
"Then if they weren't after Nicolayev and they weren't after Steve, what's it about?" Ron asked with a mounting sense of frustration.  
  
"That's the point. We're missing something. Maybe there's something in the warehouse. I don't know. I'm grasping at straws here, but I know there's more to this than meets the eye."  
  
Ron rubbed his now-aching forehead with his thumb. "I'm not sure you're helping, Mark," he commented with a wry smile. "I'm more confused than I was. Look, here's the bomb squad. Maybe we can get some answers when they've cleared the place."  
  
He went outside to brief the explosives experts, and Mark trailed behind, his eyes fixed longingly on the building in the distance. While he watched, at first uncomprehendingly, a yellow flame licked hungrily up one wall, just as a section of roof seemed to take flight.   
  
"NO!" The anguished cry ripped from his throat was drowned out by the thunder of the explosion as the sound reached them a second later, and everyone turned as if pulled by a single string. The building seemed to ripple as sequential charges sent debris flying into the air, engulfing the building in flames.  
  
Without conscious thought, Mark started running, the pounding of his feet on the pavement echoing the denial that screamed through his head. He had got slightly more than half way when Ron, who had missed his abrupt departure, caught up with him, grabbing his jacket and jerking him abruptly to a halt, spinning him around. Still operating purely on instinct, Mark struggled clumsily to free himself.   
  
"Let me go," he demanded hoarsely.  
  
Heartsick, Ron tried to restrain the distraught man without hurting him.  
  
"Ron, please. If Steve is still in there, he doesn't have much time!"  
  
Ron gave him a shake, his own sense of failure draining his patience. "If Steve is still in there, it's too late. He's dead." It was brutal, but it had the desired effect.  
  
Even at this distance, the heat of the inferno warmed their faces, and pieces of charred debris floated lazily to the ground around them, and Mark had to face the truth of that statement. His knees gave way and he dropped ungracefully to the ground, the heat drying his eyes as he stared unblinkingly at the conflagration.  
  
Ron could hear him murmuring something, an anguished tone repeated again and again, but he couldn't make out the words. Awkwardly, he patted the older man on the shoulder, suddenly longing for Amanda's comforting presence as he watched the fire spread to the next building.  
  
.. . . . . . . .  
  
Jesse looked down at his friend's inert body, noting his improved colour with relief and wishing he would wake up and help plan their next move. He was no stranger to hard decisions and, in the high pressure turmoil of the ER, he could make life and death calls without breaking a sweat, but this was beyond his purview, and not only his best friend's life but also Ellie's could very well depend on what he resolved to do.   
  
One thing was for sure, he wasn't about to leave Steve. That just wasn't going to happen. Yet Nicolayev was right, somebody had to go for help. He had no idea what to make of the Russian. Steve's introduction had been decidedly ambiguous. There was no doubt he'd been helpful so far, but there had to be a reason Steve had handcuffed them together and it certainly implied a lack of trust on his part. Ellie was in no condition to travel far by herself either.  
  
"Where are we?" he asked, his mind working frenziedly through his options.  
  
"My warehouses, near the dock," Nicolayev replied, without thinking. "I have an office close by and I could make a phone call for help from there."  
  
Too late, he noticed the sharp look of mistrust increase in the young doctor's eyes.  
  
"So," Jesse began slowly, not wanting to antagonise but determined to clarify their position. "You're the one who kidnapped us?"  
  
"No, no, I did not do...I did not know..." Nicolayev began in flustered denial. He stopped and continued more calmly. "I did not know you were here. I was being framed."  
  
"But Steve found us," Jesse continued, confused by the turn of events.  
  
"I am afraid that was something of a...how do you say... serendipitous accident?" Nicolayev summoned up his most charming smile.  
  
Jesse's cheeks puffed out in a silent sigh. Whatever his suspicions, Nicolayev was his only real choice. "You have to get help," he told the Russian firmly. "Do you know where the key to the handcuffs are?"  
  
Nicolayev shrugged gracefully, his goal achieved. "I presume somewhere..." he gestured to Steve's pockets.  
  
Jesse started a gentle search, locating them in the back pocket of Steve's jeans. He gazed sternly at Nicolayev who met his gaze guilelessly. "Call 911, then call Community General Hospital and ask for Mark Sloan and tell him what's happened."  
  
The Russian rubbed his bruised wrists. "I shall do as you say," he agreed amiably, although his own plans bore little resemblance to Jesse's.  
  
A small cough and muffled groan from Steve brought Jesse's attention back to his friend, and he started to talk to him soothingly with a precautionary hand restraining him from sudden movements.  
  
"Take it easy buddy, don't try to move or talk. You've developed something of a leak. I've patched you up for now but too much activity will ruin my hard work."  
  
Nicolayev took advantage of Jesse's preoccupation to back away steadily, sidling nonchalantly along the wall. He verified the gun's position with a quick glance, then slid down, finally grasping the weapon. It felt oddly warm and comforting as he hefted it triumphantly in his hand.  
  
"Tell Mark that . . ." Jesse glanced over his shoulder to make sure the Russian was paying attention and his eyes fell on the gun.  
  
"That's Steve's." He knew it was an inane thing to say even as he spoke, but he felt that he had to say something and he wasn't familiar with the etiquette necessary when speaking to a man of unknown intentions brandishing a gun. He didn't want to annoy the Russian, but nor did he want to appear intimidated. As unobtrusively as possible, he moved between Steve and the weapon, pulling Ellie in behind him.  
  
For a moment, Nicolayev savoured the fear he saw in the young doctor's eyes, but he hadn't survived so many years in a questionable profession by burning his bridges unnecessarily and, although he had no intention of relinquishing the gun, he wanted to maintain at least the appearance of propriety.  
  
"There are armed men out there. Surely you do not expect me to go out unarmed." He sounded hurt, innocence personified.  
  
"Nic . . . olayev."   
  
Jesse spun round at the hoarse voice from behind him and knelt at Steve's side, gently frustrating his friend's efforts to lever himself into a sitting position. "Don't move, Steve. You've got to take it easy."   
  
Steve's face was covered with a light sheen of sweat and his breathing was laboured. However, it was easy to read the grim determination in his expression. "Nicolayev. There's a task force on the hill, near the front gate. Not far. Take them there."  
  
"I thought I told you to come alone," the Russian countered lightly, not committing himself either way.  
  
Jesse was starting to feel like the net in a game of tennis and decided it was time to interject his own comments. "You're not going anywhere, Steve, and neither am I."  
  
Steve closed his eyes for a minute, summoning the energy he knew he'd need to convince his friend to leave. He was familiar with Jesse's stubbornness when a patient needed his support. "Jesse, please. Dad's there. At the moment, he doesn't know if I'm dead or alive."  
  
Jesse grimaced, imagining Mark's anguish. However, it wasn't a sufficient reason to abandon his friend. "Nicolayev can tell him. You know your Dad would never leave you in this condition for any reason. He'll understand."  
  
Steve knew it would have been impossible to have pried his father from his side, but he still hoped to fare better with Jesse. He played his last card. "What about Ellie? You have to get her to safety."  
  
Steve hoped that Ron's men had taken care of the sniper or he could be sending them out into more danger. There should have been adequate time for the FBI to have secured the area, and every instinct was screaming at him to get them out of the warehouse.  
  
Jesse cast a guilty look up at the English girl who stood cradling her arm as she listened intently. She met Jesse's gaze steadily. "I can manage. It's okay." She understood why Jesse needed to stay with the injured man and although she hated the thought of leaving him in their former prison, she had no intention of playing the helpless, clinging female.  
  
"And Nicolayev . . ." Steve pushed himself onto an elbow, ignoring Jesse's attempt at restraint. "If anything happens to her, I'm holding you personally responsible. You'll be finished in this town."  
  
It was a remarkably good job at intimidation considering the man delivering the speech was almost flat on the floor. Nicolayev bowed his head politely, concealing his frustration behind lowered eyes. His usual strategy was to play both sides to his own advantage, but that opportunistic neutrality was getting harder to maintain as he was dragged unwillingly into the fray.  
  
Jesse drew Ellie aside and stole a last kiss under the guise of checking her elbow. He hoped he wasn't making a terrible mistake letting her go with Nicolayev. With any luck they would quickly find help and this nightmare would soon be over. From the door of the container he watched them leave the warehouse and then returned to Steve's side. From the look in his friend's eyes, he deduced that his kiss had not gone unnoticed. To try to head off the ribbing he expected would follow, he reiterated his advice to stay quiet, but, not to his surprise, he was ignored.  
  
"I was worried about you. But here you are, pretty girl, privacy, comfy hideaway. Are you sure you didn't arrange this yourself?" Steve's smile was forced as the effort to talk drained his final resources.  
  
The memory of the steamy shared kisses that day caused Jesse to blush, much to Steve's delight, and he sought for a sufficiently quelling response.
> 
> "You're just jealous because she's not a psycho killer," he retorted somewhat lamely, realising too late that he'd tacitly admitted he had feelings for Ellie.  
  
Before he could compromise either his dignity or the Hippocratic Oath, Jesse was distracted by the onset of another coughing fit that convulsed Steve. He patted his friend's shoulder comfortingly, holding the bottle steady. "I told you not to talk," he chided, wishing he had some some heavy-duty pain-killers to offer his friend. He knew that his impromptu surgery would be causing Steve as much pain as the original injury.   
  
Steve looked down at the contraption on his chest. He had seen his father's jury-rigged devices often enough to recognise the inspiration behind it's construction. "Dad would be proud. Thanks Jess."  
  
Jesse graced him with an abashed smile. "You know, he taught me and . . ." He broke off as a booming roar assailed their ears, rattling the metal walls of the container. His initial alarm evolved into heart-pounding fear as the noise continued, escalating to a deafening roar. Steve pushed himself to a sitting position, and this time Jesse didn't prevent him, almost paralysed by the relentless assault on his hearing.  
  
The thunder finally died away, and the comparative silence seemed eerie after the former cacophony. "What was that?" Jesse asked in confusion.  
  
"Explosion," Steve answered succinctly.  
  
"I know that, I meant . . . Oh my God, Ellie. Do you think . . ." He jumped up and ran to the door of the container, slipping through and vanishing into the warehouse.  
  
"Jesse, stop, wait." Steve tried to get to his feet, but his legs seemed to be the consistency of overcooked asparagus, and the violent bolt of pain that shot through his chest at the movement sent him down to his knees again, swaying dizzily.  
  
The smell of smoke drifted in through the open door, but before Steve could try to make his way to see through the gap, he heard the sound of running footsteps. Jesse burst back into the container. His hair was tousled, his eyes wild, and panic was evident in the words that tumbled from his mouth.  
  
"The warehouse is on fire and there's an inferno outside the door. We're trapped!"


	9. Out of the Frying Pan

**THE GIRL NEXT DOOR**

**CHAPTER NINE: Out of the Frying Pan**

"You've done what?" Gault couldn't believe what he was hearing. How could everything have gone so wrong so quickly? He knew that he would be blamed, knew that if he didn't take action quickly then his own life would be forfeit. He wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't too late already. His mind raced frantically as he tried to come up with a solution. The whole horrible mess had arisen from the need to use secrecy, to keep the left hand from knowing what the right hand was doing. Trouble was the two sides had chosen the same space to play in, and since neither knew of the other's existence. . .

But he should have known, he was in charge. He cursed the amateurs that he had hired, there had been too many blunders, it was time for him to take over. "Look I don't care how you have to do it, how many people you bring in or what it costs, but get them all out of there now, alive. Bring them to the Marina, I'll take it from there." He paused to adjust his tone to one that dripped venom, "And if even one of them dies, then so do you." He paused again, just a beat for effect. "Your men, however, are expendable. Is that understood?" He waited for an affirmative reply before slamming down the receiver, his shirtsleeve slipping back to reveal the dragon tattoo beneath.

He should have handled the whole thing personally, not just the initial abduction. He hadn't even told his boss that the girl had been hurt yet, he had been dreading that, but it paled into insignificance compared to telling him about this, the thought made him break out into a cold sweat. Maybe he could salvage it. He had to salvage it.

He picked the receiver up again, he had one more thing to arrange before he left for the Marina. There was an assassin at the hospital who could not be left alive. He could only hope that his replacement would be much more successful.

--

Mark found the process of walking difficult, the simple task of ordering one foot to place itself in front of the other seemed somehow beyond him. He could still feel the heat against his back, the increasing volume from the wail of approaching sirens assaulted his hearing, both serving as reminders that the last few minutes had not been part of a nightmare. Much as he could not bring himself to walk away from it, he could not now bring himself to turn and face the blazing inferno that was all that remained of the warehouse where he had last seen his son. Some part of him could not, would not acknowledge the truth of his loss until he saw the body with his own eyes. For something so massive, so awful, he would need more than just a probability to accept it. He clung desperately to whatever sliver of hope that he could. "Maybe he found a way out," he said shakily.

Ron almost asked Mark to repeat himself, the comment was just within his hearing and it took a moment for him to process it. He didn't think it likely himself, much as he would like to believe that his friend had made it out, the evidence of the destruction and the way that the fire was spreading to the surrounding buildings made it extremely unlikely. There was such a huge area caught up in the blast. He had lost two of his own men that had been too close, and there were two others injured, and they hadn't even been in the building. "Maybe," he agreed, ducking his head to match Mark's slightly dejected stoop as he sought and met Mark's gaze, if the old Doctor wasn't willing to give up hope yet then he wasn't going to rob him of whatever comfort that may give him. "There was quite a gap between when he went inside and the explosion," he stated, "and I'm sure the place must have other exits." He tried to keep his tone even, reassuring.

Mark was grateful for the lie, he drew in a deep breath.

"Come on let's get back to the command post," Ron said. "Let the bomb squad and the rescue services do their work."

--

Steve's world phased in and out in a sickening haze as Jesse's panicked words sent his thought processes into turmoil, fear and helplessness gripped him in equal measure as he fought to overcome the physical discomfort and formulate some sort of rationale through the rapidly encroaching mire. He swayed slightly and closed his eyes against his graying vision. Feeling firm hands grip his arm, he was helped to sit and lean once more against the wall. He took a deep breath and gritted his teeth against the pain. Breathing as deeply as he dared, his hearing gradually focused on the soothing tones that were talking him through, helping to calm him. He finally opened his eyes once more and focused on Jesse's concerned expression.

His own fear and panic subjugated to his professional and personal need to help his patient, his friend, Jesse broke off from his soothing monologue. "Hey, don't you dare pass out on me now. If I'm going to die in here, I at least want to have someone to talk to." His teasing tone was incongruous with the morbidity of the comment and it was enough to make Steve smile.

"Jess. . ." Steve said, only getting the one word out before needing to take another breath.

"Hey, I told you earlier not to try to speak," Jesse said, masking his concern at Steve's worsening colour. "I only said I needed someone to talk to, I didn't say I needed any replies. So you just stay quiet and listen."

Steve held up his hand, "Never gonna. . .happen," he said, taking more cautious breaths. He grinned as Jesse shared the connection, grinning back. There was no need to express their mutual fear, the connected gaze passed far more than words ever could.

There was silence for a few moments before Steve spoke again. "Jess," this time there was no interruption. He needed to try again to get his friend to leave without him, waiting for help to come was no longer an option. "You should get out of here, no sense in us both dying." He paused, longer than he needed to take the necessary breath. "Tell Dad. . ."

"No," Jesse shook his head vehemently. "Even if there was a way out, I couldn't leave you behind. So if we are going to try then we try together, or we both sit here and wait."

Steve gazed into the fiercely determined blue eyes and knew that Jesse's resolve matched his own. "In that case. . .I guess I've got no choice," he said shifting his weight. "Let's try."

--

Ellie pushed herself to a sitting position and tried not to cry at the burning shards of pain emanating from her elbow. She hugged the injured limb close to her chest and rocked backwards and forwards slightly as she gazed around trying to make sense of what had happened. It had felt like a giant hand had picked her up, pushed her forward and dropped her to the floor, and she barely had time to turn so that she would not land on her injured elbow. Even so the shock of the impact with the floor had jarred the injury and set new levels of pain.

She spotted Nicolayev, he was lying a few feet from her. She started to move towards him, stopping, startled, as he rolled over and coughed. Groaning, he too pushed himself to a seated position. He looked over at her and obviously saw the slightly dazed, questioning expression. "Explosion," he stated simply. "There," he pointed back towards the large doors to the warehouse. They had opened them slightly, but the force of the explosion had blasted them the rest of the way, and one hung at a strangely skewed angle, where the top hinge had shattered. Beyond that the dull orange glow of rising flames could just be seen through darkening clouds of smoke.

Ellie's mind finally cleared and she realised the full implications of what she was seeing. "Oh God," she whispered quietly, pushing herself to her feet. "Jesse. . .Steve, we have to help them." She took a step towards the building. "We have to get them out of there."

Nicolayev's instinct was to just turn and run, self- preservation had always been his strongest motivator. Instead he stepped between her and the warehouse. "No, we will go for help," he said firmly. "It is still their best chance."

Ellie looked up into the Russian's cold gray eyes, trying to read his expression as she weighed up the logic of his statement. She nodded.

"Good, this way," he said turning, only to come face to face with two black clad, masked figures. Despite the semi automatic weapons that they carried his instinct was still to flee, but there were two similarly armed figures behind. He felt Ellie tense beside him, her hand taking a grip of his arm, and, as the men he faced gestured for them to move, he heard the unmistakable sound of distant gunfire.

--

Mark and Ron had made it back to the command post to witness Cheryl attempting to calm Ellie's Mother, still clearly distressed by the FBI's inability to find her daughter. Mark found himself envying her. At that moment he would rather not have known the whereabouts of his son, would rather have had a stronger hope to cling to than he had. He allowed Ron to lead him to a seat, sinking into it only when a firm pressure was applied to his shoulder. "I'll let you know the moment we find anything." Ron said, not waiting for an answer before moving off to coordinate the search.

It was at that moment that all hell broke loose.

There was a dull thump followed by a whizzing sound and then the FBI helicopter that had been circling overhead, disappeared in a blazing fireball. Everyone at the command post stopped and stared upwards not quite able to comprehend what was happening. There was a moment of eerie silence as everyone watched the first glowing debris fall and then the radios went crazy. Shots rang out from what sounded like a violent gun battle and those who had been momentarily stunned sprang back to life.

Mark stood and moved into the command truck, unable to temper his curiosity, he moved to the best position to find out what was happening, just in time to hear the radio operator report to Ron.

"The helicopter was taken out by a hand held rocket launcher," the man said as he relayed reports. "And the team by warehouse 21 just came under heavy weapons fire."

Mark looked at the map on the wall, the warehouse in question was the furthest on the dock from the one that had exploded. "It's a diversion," he stated loudly. He pointed to the layout, "They're trying to get you away from here." For the first time he noticed the connecting passage from warehouse 17 to the one behind it. He looked over at Ron, gut instinct telling him that somehow Steve had made it into there, that that was where they were being diverted from. "They're trying to get us away from here."

Ron looked at Mark, if it had been anyone else he would not have given any credence to what could only be a guess, but this wasn't anyone, it was Mark Sloan, and Ron had learnt by experience never to dismiss what he said out of hand. He looked to where Mark had indicated, it did make a certain amount of sense in a situation where nothing else did, but his men were under fire. He turned to the man on the radio. "Send a couple of our men to here." He pointed to warehouse 18. "To check out what is happening. Divert the rest of the men to here," again he pointed, "To back up our team."

--

Steve made it to his feet with the help of Jesse and the rough metal wall of the container. He paused to once again steady his breathing, before gritting his teeth against the pain and taking a step forward.

That was as far as he got before a soft thud sounded in the distance, he instinctively reached for the wall as the whole container rocked slightly. Jesse tightened his grip on his arm as they waited for the rocking to pass but instead it was replaced by a second more violent shock. First there was a roar, followed by a whumping sound and the screech of tearing metal, and then the shock wave from the blast hit them, pushing both men into the wall as the hinges to the large door at the opposite end of the container were ripped off, and the metal fell outwards.

Steve's whole world exploded into a white sheet, he would have slipped to the floor again but the wall held him upright as Jesse scrambled back into position hooking his arm under his friend's shoulder on the uninjured side. He did his best to assess Steve's condition. His eyes were closed and his jaw was clamped against the pain but he was at least still conscious. Jesse considered helping him to the floor again so that he could do a proper examination, but knew that if he did, the chances were that Steve would not have the strength to stand again. He was so intent on monitoring his friend that he did not even notice the armed men until a gun was jabbed into his ribs.

"You're coming with us," a harsh voice said, and before Jesse could protest he was pulled away from Steve, two black clad figures moved in to take his place. They pulled Steve's arms over their shoulders heedless of the gasp of pain that the act invoked from the injured man. They then joined hands behind Steve's back and knees and scooped him up, carrying him out of the warehouse, through the smoke and into the fading afternoon sunshine beyond.

Jesse was forced forward, a gun in his back, powerless to do anything else at the moment other than follow.

--

Mark stared out at the aftermath of an afternoon than had seen a quiet California dock turn into something resembling a war zone. 'Be careful what you wish for. . ." he repeated the quotation to himself. Only an hour earlier he had envied Mrs. Fortesque's, ignorance of what had happened to her daughter, in preference to the near certain knowledge that his son was dead, and now he had his wish. The two FBI agents Ron had sent had watched Steve being carried from the warehouse, injured but alive. They had watched as he, Jesse, Nicolayev and Ellie were forced down into a waiting speedboat, but had been powerless to act against the heavily armed group of men that took them. By the time that backup arrived the boat had disappeared from sight, the coastguard had thus far found no trace of it.

So Mark knew that Steve was alive but he was missing, with seemingly no clues as to who had taken him and the others or why. The other attack had broken off as soon as the speedboat was clear and the attacking group had disappeared, leaving behind two dead. The FBI had fortunately suffered no more casualties, the helicopter had been enough.

Frustrated Mark watched the plumes of smoke spiraling into the air, then dropped his gaze to the still smoldering debris from the helicopter. He needed to focus, needed to start putting things together or he might never see Steve and Jesse again. He pushed his hand into his pockets and his fingers brushed over a crumpled piece of paper. Curious he pulled it out and unfolded it to reveal the sketch of the tattoo that he had drawn from Hugo's description in the hospital.

He heard a gasp behind him and turned to see Lucinda. Fortesque. "Do you recognise this?" He asked, holding up the piece of paper.

--

"Hey," Jesse said angrily, "I told you to be more careful." Reluctantly he released his arm from the protective grip he had around Ellie and moved towards the men who were manhandling Steve "He has a collapsed lung, you could kill him."

Jesse did not expect his words to have any effect, for the entire journey to this point their captors had ignored them, except for when they were pushing them around, from the dock to the boat, the transfer to the less conspicuous pleasure cruiser, the boarding of the huge multimillion dollar yacht and now the entry into one of the yacht's huge staterooms. All comments and protests had been ignored, but now the men paused in their action, exchanging glances before lowering Steve onto the bed with considerably more care.

Encouraged by their positive response Jesse decided to try for more. "I need to help him." He turned and pointed at Ellie. "Her too, I need a first aid kit, some antiseptic, painkillers. . . bandages."

No words were exchanged but the men looked behind Jesse to a third man who still held a gun on them all. He nodded and both men hurried off. The man with the gun backed towards the door keeping his gaze fixed on Jesse. "It takes courage to stand up to men who are pointing guns at you. You will get your supplies. Meanwhile make yourselves comfortable; you're going to be here for a while."

Once he had left Jesse turned his attention back to Steve. He had been mercifully unconscious since being carried from the warehouse. Jesse did not want to consider the amount of pain he would have had to endure otherwise, as the powerboat had pounded over the waves. Up to this point Jesse had not been able to get close enough to examine him properly. Now that he did his concern grew. Steve's skin was gray and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his breathing shallow and laboured. Jesse first checked his makeshift chest tube which was miraculously still intact. The skin around the incision wound, however, was already becoming red and angry and Jesse could feel the rise in skin temperature which heralded a developing low grade fever that would only worsen with time. The site of the bullet impact held no better signs, every indication was that Steve had begun to bleed internally. Jesse let out a breath as the door was opened and a first aid box pushed into the room.

--

"It looks exactly like one that Marcus has," Lucinda Fortesque said, a slight quiver to her voice. She looked up from the sketch of the tattoo on the paper and met Mark's gaze. "Marcus Gault," she elaborated. "He's my husband's personal aide."

Mark placed a hand on her shoulder and gently began to turn her as he spoke. "I think you'd better tell me all about your husband, and your daughter's failed wedding," he said, guiding her back towards the tables that had been set up by the command truck.

"Well, My husband's in London at the moment, he had some. . ." Her voice trailed off as she realised the possible implications of Mark's questioning. "My God," she exclaimed stopping in her tracks. "You can't possibly think that Michael has something to do with this." Her anger was rising. "Our daughter has been kidnapped, almost killed and all you can do is. . ."

Mark held up his hand against the onslaught. "Please Mrs. Fortesque," something in his tone made her stop instantly. "Lucinda," he continued more gently as he gestured for them to continue to the seats, "I just need your help so that we can find your daughter and my son." He paused. "I just need you to answer some questions for me."

Once again Mark's mastery of putting people at ease worked its magic, the gentle reminder that he too was worried about his child, enough to drain the last of the fight out of Ellie's mother. She nodded and sat opposite Mark, waiting for his first question.

--

Ellie did her best to help as Jesse cleaned around where he had made the incision on Steve's chest and retaped his makeshift chest drain, but she could do little more than pass him things. Nicolayev was pressed into service to help Jesse prop Steve in a sitting position to ease the pressure on his chest. He did so sullenly, without speaking, before returning to sit on the couch, staring at the door.

He had been silent since the docks, finding himself in a situation that he could see no way to lie or scheme himself out of, was a new and uncomfortable experience for him, and at the moment he blamed his three companions for his predicament. What had he been thinking, trying to help the girl? If he'd just ran when he had the chance he wouldn't be caught up in this now.

Having done all he could to help Steve, Jesse turned his attention to Ellie. Now that he focussed on her, he was shocked by her deathly pale appearance and pensive expression. "OK let's take a look at that elbow," he said softly.

Ellie made no move to allow him to see her arm. "Jess," she began, tears welling in her eyes. Whilst she had been helping Jesse with Steve she had been able to keep a check on her fear and confusion, now they both broke through to the surface. There was something she needed desperately to tell Jesse, only she couldn't quite find the words. "I don't understand. . ."

"I know Ellie, I don't know why any of this is happening either. . ." Jesse tried his best to be comforting despite the trauma of the last two days and his own fear for the future, at least they were all still alive, and that had looked by no means a certain outcome several times already.

"No," Ellie interrupted, that hadn't been what she wanted to say. She took a deep breath. "I know who owns this yacht." She paused as she tried to get her mouth round the next few words. "It belongs to my father."

--

"Ellie's father doesn't know that she and Hugo didn't get married?" Mark asked incredulously.

Lucinda looked a little embarrassed at having to admit to the family's secrets, but something about Mark made her want to trust him. She shook her head. "Well he never liked Hugo said he was a good for nothing and that he would let Ellie down, and, it would seem, he was right." She sighed. "He tried to persuade Ellie to change her mind but she was adamant that she loved him, so he agreed to the wedding, even paid for everything but he didn't want to be there. He arranged to be away on business in the Far East for a month. When everything went wrong Ellie didn't want him to know so she moved out of the house as though the marriage had gone ahead and convinced Hugo's father not to say anything. My husband has something of a. . ." she paused choosing her words carefully, not entirely sure she wanted to share this particular secret ". . .violent temper," she finally continued, "so I didn't tell him. It was up to Ellie."

Mark was about to protest that even so it was ridiculous for a father not to know the marital status of his own child when he caught himself. He had not known that his own daughter had remarried until long after the event. He pushed back the sharp pain that that particular memory invoked and concentrated on his next question. "Whereabouts in the Far East?" he asked.

Lucinda paused for a moment as she searched her memory. "North Korea I think."

--

Everyone tensed as the door to the stateroom reopened. This time there were no masks, the man that entered wore an exquisitely tailored dark suit. He was in his mid-fifties, just graying around the temples. Two bodyguards carrying semi automatic weapons flanked him.

"Dad!" the word escaped from Ellie as an exclamation, although Jesse would have guessed who it was just from the resemblance he bore to his daughter.

Before anyone else could speak, Nicolayev was on his feet. "Mr. Fortesque," he began, affording the man the proper respect despite his own anger. "What's going on? Why did you try to have me killed? Why have I been brought here? I have done everything that you asked. . ."

"Silence," Michael Fortesque, dismissed Nicolayev with a single word, backed up by the weapons in the hands of the guards. He turned his attention to Ellie. "I have come to talk to my daughter. Come let's get you out of here."

Ellie stepped closer to Jesse and gripped his arm. "No," she stated flatly, "Whatever you have to say to me you can say right here."

Michael Fortesque was a man who was used to having his instructions obeyed and he considered for a moment forcing the issue, but the defiant set of his daughter's features told him that he would have to use force, so he acquiesced. There was still a part of him that wanted to save her, although his paternal instincts had long since been buried under a mountain of greed and self interest. He was arrogant enough not to have noticed. "Very well, I wanted to apologise, to get you to come with me."

"Apologise for what?" Ellie asked her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"For you getting hurt," he said, "It was never meant to happen. You were supposed to be taken somewhere safe, out of the way, given food, water, supplies, I even told them to take someone with you for company."

Ellie couldn't believe what she was hearing. "It was you? . .but they locked us in a metal container. . it was. ."

Michael took a step forward. "I know, it was a misunderstanding. Trust me the people responsible have been taken care of."

Ellie felt sick, unable to believe what she was hearing. "So what were you keeping me safe from?"

"That low life husband of yours, with his deal gone wrong, I didn't want you to be caught in the crossfire."

"Hugo?" Ellie asked, "You knew about Hugo's deal?"

"Oh I think he more than knew about it," Jesse said, his mind racing as he fitted the pieces together. Ellie turned to face him. "I think your father set Hugo up right from the beginning," he continued, "From getting Nicolayev to extend him credit beyond his limits and encourage his gambling, to putting him in touch with the counterfeiters so that he could double cross them." He turned to face Michael. "It was all part of an elaborate plan so that you could take the money."

Michael smiled. "Brilliant isn't it. I get all of the money and Hugo is the perfect scapegoat. With him dead, no one knows that he didn't just hide the money and, most importantly of all, no one even suspects me."

"Hugo. ." Ellie caught the sob. "Hugo's dead?"

Michael's smile faded as he saw his daughter's anguish, there was the briefest stab of guilt before he reminded himself that this was best for her. "You can do far better for yourself," he stated, "and from now on, money is no object, you can have anything in the world that you want." He extended his hand. "So come on, let me get you out of here, get you to a doctor to treat that arm."

Ellie stared at her father and drew on all of her strength to reply, the hatred blazing in her eyes. "I will never go anywhere with you. You're not my father, you're some unspeakable monster. I don't want your money, I don't want anything your money could buy." She moved even closer to Jesse, who tightened his grip. "I'm staying here." Her choice to share the fate of her friends was implicit in her actions.

Ellie's speech was enough to bury her father's last link with her. She had made her choice and he was in too deep to change anything now. He nodded, "Very well," was all he said before turning and exiting the room.

Ellie looked up into Jesse's eyes as she tried to deal with the enormity of her father's confession. She opened her mouth to say something but no words would come, instead the tears began to fall. Jesse pulled her into an embrace as she buried her head into his shoulder and began to sob.

He softly stroked her hair. "It's all going to be all right," he whispered the platitude softly, only too aware of the enormity of the lie. Without access to a hospital Steve had a few hours at best, not that that really mattered, Jesse was sure that Michael Fortesque had no intention of keeping them alive.


	10. East West Relations

**East-West Relations**

Mark sat in silence, contemplating. The past few hours had thrown up more for his mind to take in than he cared to think about, but knowing that his son's life depended on someone fitting together the fragments of information they had, he was more than willing to put his head to the task.

Lucinda Fortescue's knowledge, albeit sketchy, had proved invaluable. The sheer level of her husband's now apparent secrecy was cause for concern in itself, but the small amount of detail Lucinda had provided was startling. Not only had Michael Fortescue not approved of his daughter's intended marriage to Hugo, but he had also gone to great lengths to try and stop it.

_"Michael . . . well he was always scornful of Hugo . . . second generation immigrant, you know? It didn't seem to matter that he was the son of his business partner . . . to be honest with you, he was always rather disdainful of Viktor too . . . I often got the impression that many of the business dealings were carried out without his knowledge . . . "_

Mark mulled over these words. Michael Fortescue was at the root of the kidnapping, that much seemed to be clear. But why?

_"Michael was furious that he could not dissuade Ellie, I . . . I've never seen him in such a temper . . . " Lucinda had flushed in abashment and averted her gaze from Mark's. "He left, I thought he was going to do something stupid, but when he returned . . . he seemed calm, accepting. He apologised to Ellie, paid for everything. He left for North Korea the week before the wedding, a business trip and perfect excuse not to be there to see her . . . well, make the biggest mistake of her life – as he saw it."_

Had Michael resented Hugo enough to stage the entire kidnapping? To set him up with North Korean gangsters? To endanger his own daughter's life? Lucinda Fortesque had been aghast at the suggestion that her husband was involved in her daughter's abduction, but even so had looked more than slightly apprehensive to accept the sheer quantity of coincidences that now implicated him.

"Mark?" Ron's voice broke through his ruminations, and Mark turned his head to look at him.

"Ron," Mark jumped up form his seat, "Is there any news of Michael Fortesque – we know he's not in London, so . . . "

Ron raised a hand to silence him. "There's been an incident at the hospital – the would-be assassin is dead."

.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.

Michael strode away from the stateroom, his mouth clenched into a tight-lipped grimace. The heavy clunk of the door as it was pulled shut behind him resounded in his ears, and a slight wave of bitterness washed over him. _How could she?! After all I've done for her? _Whilst he was loathe to admit it, even to himself, Eleanor's betrayal stung. _How could she choose him over me?_

There had been no wavering in her response - her answer had been decisive. She sealed her own fate . . .

"What?" Michael spoke curtly, his clipped English accent abrupt and forbidding. The presence of his personal aide was unexpected and unsolicited, and therefore could only spell trouble. And Michael was in no mood to be disturbed.

"There . . . " Marcus Gault hesitated in continuing. He could see from the tautness of his employer's face that trouble was brewing, and he had no desire to be on the receiving end, particularly given to the news he was about to impart. Seeing however, that his continued hesitation was merely adding to the mounting bad-temper on Fortescue's face, he desisted his hesitation and spoke.

"There's been a complication . . . "

Gault watched Fortescue's face, the momentary contraction of the muscles surrounding his eyes that hinted at his displeasure. A pause pregnant with stifled tension lingered for a moment before Michael responded. Stopping dead in his tracks he turned to face Gault, who immediately averted his gaze.

"Well? Do you expect me to guess, or will you do me the courtesy of telling me about this, 'complication'?" His voice dripping with contemptuous sarcasm, Michael awaited a response.

"I think . . . perhaps it would be better if we spoke in your office?" Gault risked a glance up, and for the briefest of moments felt the venom of the glare that was directed at his own face.

"I do not pay you to think, Gault, but if you insist?"

"I . . . " Gault hesitated once again. He knew he was being played, baited into angering his employer who was clearly looking for someone to take the brunt of his vicious temper.

Contemplating his response as carefully as the nanosecond he had to think would allow, he replied, "Not at all, the situation is a little . . . sensitive, but if you like . . . "

Gault found himself cut short as his employer interjected. "Hawkins, Price, keep watch on our guests. I trust there will be no mishaps?" The threat behind his words was overtly obvious, as was his dismissal of their presence.

"Come." Michael barked the command as he began the path to his office, Gault pacing a few steps behind him.

Approaching the office Michael flung open the door and entered. The room was dark and stately, decorated in dark mahogany and red leather. An illustriously carved desk took over a large proportion of the room, uncompromisingly magnificent and imposing; a metaphor for its owner in every sense.

Gault stepped into the room and gently closed the door behind himself. As he did so he could feel the intensity of the glare that bored into his back, and taking a silent, bracing breath, he turned to face it. The fading light of the day cast innumerable shadows haphazardly about the room, but neither man made any effort to turn the lights on.

Michael Fortescue's gaze was intense and cold. His slightly greying eyebrows arched expectantly, a slight sneer playing on his lips.

"It's about Hugo." _Better to get it over and done with_, Gault thought, the words spilling from his mouth in a rush.

Sure enough, a look of thunder instantly creased Michael's distinguished face, before again being replaced with a steely blankness.

"Hugo?" The word was delivered with an air of confusion, as though the name lacked all meaning. "I was under the impression that the situation had been dealt with."

"As I was saying, there's been somewhat of a . . . complication. The . . . "

"I don't want to hear about your _complications_!"

As he spoke Michael strode across the office, seizing Gault by the lapels of his suit jacket, and thrusting his face into his. "I have employed you long enough now that you should know only too well of my policy on those who fail me . . . Deal with the 'situation' and do it properly, or you will not have the opportunity of disappointing me again."

Gault flinched back from his foaming boss, the intense proximity such that he could feel the discharge of saliva against his skin. Determinedly averting his gaze from Fortescue's, Gault inclined his head in an assent of submission.

Fortescue held him for a moment longer, his breath heaving hot and ragged. He considered what he would truly like to do to the man he held in his clutches, trembling slightly at the power he felt surging through his veins. Realising however that for the moment Gault was more use to him alive than in a bloody pulp he released him, thrusting him away and watching him stagger slightly.

Gault did not wait for a verbal dismissal. He took his leave at once, opening the door and retreating as rapidly and with as much dignity as he could muster.

Michael Fortescue stood for a moment, breathing heavily. The surge of adrenaline that had swelled through his body unspent, he felt jittery, unsettled. Forcing the wave of anger to subside Michael began to straighten his clothes; smoothing out invisible creases in his sleeves and brushing down his hair. Readjusting his tie Michael turned to his desk, and froze mid-step.

Viktor Bordonov emerged from the shadowy confines of the dark office, his right arm outstretched, a gun clasped in one trembling hand.

.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.

Jesse sat away from the others, his mind racing with ideas. He had to find a solution, was _desperate _to.

He knew that their time was running out, that at any moment Ellie's father might give the word to have them killed. He knew that it was up to him to get them out of the situation, _Mark will never forgive me_. The thought came out of nowhere, and did nothing to improve the sullen frustration that seemed to be swamping his thoughts. _Damn it_! Jesse cursed himself, picking bad-temperedly at a hole that had been scuffed in his jeans. _I should be able to do this! _A stifled cough brought Jesse from his musings. He looked up to see Steve trying to push himself up from the bed.

"Steve, no!" Jesse leapt up from his seat and hastened to his friend's side trying to force his shoulders back down onto the bed.

Considering Steve's physical state it was surprising how strongly he resisted Jesse's attempts.

"Steve, will you lie down!" Thoroughly irritated by his continued struggles Jesse pushed Steve more firmly than was necessary and received a strangled yelp of pain for his efforts. Wincing in sympathy Jesse held his palms resolutely to Steve's shoulders.

"What exactly do you think you're trying to do?" Jesse eyed Steve's ashen pallor, his face contorted in pain.

"We have to get out of here . . . " his voice was rasping, laboured.

Jesse hesitated for a moment, he knew of course that Steve was right, and yet he had no plan to offer, no means of escape.

"Jesse . . . "

"Steve, please. You need to conserve your breath . . . " _And stop making me feel worse than I already do._

Steve glared at him, an intense stare that conveyed its message perfectly.

Do something.

Eliciting a moan of frustration Jesse sank down onto the bed beside Steve. Dropping his head into his hands he squeezed his eyes closed, _what would Mark do? _Without warning, Jesse jumped up. His eyes scouring the room he began to search.

"Jesse, what are you looking for?" Ellie watched his face creased in concentration, a pink flush creeping into his cheeks as he ferreted about the room.

"Something . . . _anything_. We have to get out of here, so I need to . . . " He allowed the sentence to trail off. In all honesty he had no plan. "We just need to think this through logically. We're in here, there are at least three men on the yacht, right?"

"Uh, I think so – my father, two guards. There are almost certainly more though, Daddy never goes anywhere without a full entourage." Ellie spoke the last words with contempt, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Mr. Fortescue is a well-protected man; you waste your time in trying to escape." Nicolayev spoke from the corner of the room, his voice heavy with resigned despondence.

"If you've got nothing constructive to say," Jesse intoned angrily, "then keep your mouth shut. We _are_ going to get out of here, and _you_ are going to help us, understand?"

Nicolayev looked up, his lips twitching in anger, but he did not argue.

"Jesse, we're on a yacht and probably in the middle of the ocean by now, how are we supposed to escape?" Ellie too found it hard to share Jesse's hopefulness. She knew her father had a temper and had long suspected his business dealings were not always above board, but their current situation had rocketed her perception of his dark side to a whole new level.

"We'll worry about that once we're out of here, ok?" Jesse spoke with false optimism, determined that if nothing else they wouldn't go down without a fight.

"Tell me, young doctor, how do you suggest we get out of this room? We will be guarded and the weapons you saw are not toys. Tell me how we will escape?" Nicolayev's voice was scornful.

Striding to the door Jesse pressed his face to the door, peering through the eyehole. Sure enough, two guards lingered in the hallway, weapons clutched in their hands.

"Uhhh . . . OK, two guards . . . We can . . . distract them . . . Yeah! We'll create a diversion, and while their distracted we can take them out!" Jesse spun round to face the room again, all eyes watching his progress.

If it hadn't been for the gravity of the situation Nicolayev might have laughed. The doctor's enthusiasm was admirable.

"And how do you suggest we will achieve this feat? The lieutenant can barely walk and the girl is injured. Do you think you and I alone will overpower them all?"

Steve shot Nicolayev as dirty a scowl as he could force his otherwise grimacing face into. He hated being referred to as lieutenant, and Nicolayev's constant attempts to undermine Jesse were not helping the situation.

"Nico . . . layev, will you . . . shut up . . ." The words exuded from Steve's mouth with a growl which, whilst unintentional, added a undeniably threatening quality to the command.

Jesse wondered for a moment if he should reprimand Steve again for speaking, but was so grateful to his friend that he let it pass.

"Well . . ." Jesse paused, thinking with renewed confidence, "Ellie – you can call to them, and say you've changed your mind, that you want to speak to your father, yeah that's it, you want to speak to your father and say you're sorry!"

"What? No! Jesse, there is no way I'm going to apologise to him!" Ellie's face reddened in anger.

"You won't have to – it's just to distract them while we…" Jesse stopped mid-sentence.

Nicolayev smiled.

"While we . . .?"

"Uh, we . . . we can subdue them, with . . ." Jesse searched around the room, looking for something that could be used as a weapon. His eyes landed on the small fire extinguisher hooked to the wall beside the door.

"We can use this," Jesse pointed towards the small red cylinder, smiling slightly to himself.

_This really might work_.

.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.

"Dead?" Mark had not expected this.

"A single shot to the centre of the chest, killed him instantly." Ron ran a hand wearily over his face. Their most hopeful lead had just been snatched away from them.

"But how, surely he was guarded?" Mark was incredulous at the seeming ineptness of both the LAPD and the FBI.

"Of course he was guarded, Mark, there were two men on the door." The insinuation of blame in Mark's voice was modest, but Ron had picked up on it nonetheless.

"So what . . .?" Ron cut Mark off mid-sentence.

"Dead, both of them."

"What about witnesses?" Mark felt guilty at glossing over the fact that two innocent men had been dragged into the foray and had forfeited their lives, but the urgency he felt to find his son had only increased on hearing the news.

"No," Ron answered with a sigh, "No one saw anything."

"But how . . ."

"I don't know, Mark! I don't know how someone was able to walk into a hospital and shoot three people without being seen! " The inadequacy Ron felt at allowing their only suspect to die came spilling from his mouth in an angry torrent, and Mark physically recoiled, an expression of surprise on his face.

"Mark . . . I'm sorry, ok. I'm sorry I . . ." Ron let the apology hang in the air unfinished.

Mark merely shook his head, dismissing the outburst. His head was far too full of concern and questions to take issue with Ron's understandable frustration.

"There was something significant about the murders though." Ron felt he needed to offer something by way of advancement in the case, and knew that Mark's input could only help.

"Each victim's face was covered by a black handkerchief – a trademark of the North Korean mafia."

.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.s.

"Predutyelly!" Viktor spat the word, his voice shaking. He pointed the gun determinedly at Michael Fortescue's head, his face flushing red with anger.

"I'm no traitor, Viktor . . ." Fortescue began, stepping towards his business partner.

"Predutyelly! Ya vus obievayoo!" Viktor raised his arm higher, aiming the gun directly to the centre of Michael's body.

Michael didn't move. He merely watched for a moment before slowly spreading his arms out to either side, opening himself up as a clear target in an unspoken challenge.

"I did not betray you, Viktor, but if you want to kill me, I won't try and stop you." Michael locked his eyes with Viktor's, holding his gaze, nodding slightly as if in encouragement.

Viktor stayed rooted to the spot, apparently thrown by the ease with which Michael had surrendered himself.

"How could you?" he spoke gruffly, his subtle Russian accent lilting his words; a sheen of perspiration shimmering on his swarthy skin.

"My son, Michael? Hugo was my _son_!" His voice broke slightly and he stepped backwards, dropping his arm to his side.

Michael fought hard to suppress a smile.

_Was, Hugo was his son. _

"Viktor . . ." Michael spoke softly and forced an air of bewilderment into his voice, "I don't understand . . ."

"Liar!" Viktor raised his arm again, the gun aimed fixedly on its target.

_Wrong move, change tack_ __

"I'm sorry, Viktor, I . . ." _play it cool_, "I tried to stop them, I _tried _to help him. Hugo came to me – he asked me for help. I'm sorry, Viktor, I've failed you . . . I failed Hugo. He was so ashamed . . . he didn't want to disappoint you . . ."

The hint of desperation that Michael had edged his voice with had the desired effect. Viktor's face fell, grasping the implication that Hugo hadn't felt able to approach him in a time of need.

Viktor lowered his arm once again. His head slumped forwards toward his chest and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Michael allowed himself the briefest of smiles before plastering an expression of impassioned condolence on his face.

"Viktor," he spoke soothingly, approaching the seemingly broken man, "Hugo was a good man . . ."

"No!" Viktor turned again, his face flushed in renewed anger.

"Do not talk to me about my Hugo. It is your fault! You! You try to help him? _You _failed him. You!" Viktor Bordonov shook as he spoke, striding forwards and pressing the gun into Michael's chest.

"You think I am stupid, yes? You think I know nothing! I am your partner, Michael! I hear you talk . . . I know about the money!"

Michael had opened his mouth to interject, to protest his innocence in the most naïve voice he could muster, but the final remark caught him off guard.

His mouth half open in readiness for the lie he fumbled to catch himself. "Viktor . . ."

"Do not lie to me, Michael, I know . . ." Viktor left the proclamation hanging in the air, heaving slightly as if under great exertion.

Michael tried to decide how best to approach the situation.

"Okay, Viktor. You want the truth? I'll tell you the truth." Michael stepped around Viktor to his desk and picked up a crystal decanter.

"Scotch?"

With an air of a man without a care in the world Michael poured two glasses of scotch. He inclined his head to Viktor, before picking up his own and taking a sip.

"Hugo came to me and asked for help. That much is true. He was in debt, Viktor – deeply in debt. You know how he was with gambling. It was like a disease, eating away at him. He asked me for help and I gave it to him." Michael took another draft from his glass, relishing slightly at his references to Hugo in the past tense.

Everything is slotting into place . . . 

"But it wasn't enough. He was spiralling out of control, and not even I could help him. He was in too deep. They were going to kill him, Viktor." Michael set down his glass and stood, turning to face his trembling partner.

"They were going to kill him; set him up. They were going to shame us; they were going to shame _you_. It would have destroyed us. An import business involved in smuggling counterfeit money? We would have been bankrupt in a week. Viktor," Michael gripped his arm, the sincerity in his voice overwhelming.

"Viktor, I was trying to protect you. To protect Hugo. They would have tortured him, Viktor, he would have suffered. These people? You can't image what they would have done to him."

Michael watched Viktor's face, he could see that he was relenting; drinking in the lies.

"I didn't kill him, Viktor, his gambling did."

"But the money?"

"The money is yours, Viktor. Hugo would have wanted you to have it. You can take it, a fresh start . . ."

Viktor Bordonov dropped his arm to his side.

"But where is it? These men you speak of . . ."

Michael laughed. "Don't worry about them, the money is safe. Our old friend Nicolayev has his uses!" Michael laughed again and clapped Viktor across the shoulder, apparently sharing the joke with him.

Viktor turned to face his friend, "Nicolayev?"

Michael enjoyed the moment of superiority Viktor's evident lack of understanding conferred him. "Yes, Viktor, Cheslav Nicolayev. The low-life and his warehouses certainly do come in useful." Michael grinned broadly, and was cheered when Viktor returned his smile.

"The money is in the warehouses?"

"It's being loaded into a boat off dock eleven as we speak. The joys of owning an import company!"

"Thank you, Michael." Viktor removed Michael's hand from his arm and held it tightly, his grip warm, "That is all I needed to know."

Michael eyed Viktor, a hint of confusion on his face.

"What do you mean?" Michael wasn't accustomed to having to ask questions. He made it his business to know all that transpired around him, so the smug expression of superiority that now leered from Viktor's face came as both a surprise and a cause for concern.

"You do not listen, Michael, that is your trouble!" Viktor guffawed loudly, the volt-face in his demeanour complete.

Michael didn't respond, merely looking on; a feeling of dismay sinking in the pit of his stomach. Viktor's grip on his hand increasing until it was more than unpleasantly tight.

"You are not the only one who can act, no?! Your false sorrow is not necessary, Michael. Hugo is alive, and he will not take the blame for your dealings! You think I am stupid, yes? You think I do not know what you think of me? _'Dirty immigrant'_? _'Gullible fool'_? You think my son is not worthy of your daughter? That we are not good enough for you?" Viktor thrust Michael's hand away from his own, causing him to stumble backwards.

He raised the gun again.

"You? Who would have his own daughter kidnapped? That _we _are beneath _you_?!" Viktor aimed the gun directly into Michael's chest.

"Wait . . ." Michael raised his hands, stunned by the rapid turn of events.

The intensity of Viktor's sneer increased. "Do not worry, Michael. I will not make you suffer, I will not put you through what you did to my Hugo."

Michael stepped back, away from Viktor; fierce rage intermingling with dread. The gun fired before he had a chance to move. As if in slow-motion he felt the bullet enter his body, ripping through his flesh and tearing deep into the centre of his chest.

Marcus Gault leant back against the heavy door that sealed his employer's office. He had just placed a cigarette into his mouth when the sound of gunfire resounded from within. He smiled to himself and flicked his lighter on, raising it to his mouth and igniting his cigarette. It was relief he felt rather than pleasure. He had worked for Fortescue for years; had been his loyal aide, trusted beyond all others. But Bordonov's offer had been too good to refuse. His betrayal of Fortescue had been going on for so long that he was surprised he hadn't been caught out. Surprised and thankful. He had initially been reluctant to agree, but the financial reward had persuaded him. _With Fortescue dead, I'm free. Free, and very, very rich._

The force of the bullet propelled Michael Fortescue backwards causing him to stagger into his ornate desk, a carved corner digging painfully into his side before he fell to the floor. The pain was immense; a burning white heat that radiated through his chest and back and up into his throat, choking him. He couldn't breath, couldn't speak.

A shadow loomed over his face as he lay gasping for breath, asphyxiating on his own blood. Viktor Bordonov looked down into Michael's face with a countenance of cold, inimical distaste.

"Do not worry, Michael. Your wife and daughter will be cared for – most certainly better than you would have ever seen them . . . Hugo and I will see it is so. The police will find your body and the money will have vanished . . . They will blame the North Koreans of course, and your hostages will confirm the anonymous tip."

Bordonov smiled as Michael struggled to speak, his mouth opening and closing repeatedly but managing to emit no more than a strangled gasp. He removed a black handkerchief from his pocket and bent down.

"I am sorry, Michael." Viktor unfolded the handkerchief before draping across Michael's face, obscuring his vision almost entirely.

Viktor stood and stepped back from the form of his dying business partner. He watched as his chest heaved, blood spurting from the bullet wound with every beat of his failing heart. He watched as Michael raised his hand from his side, extending it blindly as if searching for solace; for comfort as he lay dying. Finding nothing, it dropped back to the floor and Michael moved no more.

"God forgive me," Viktor dropped his head and spoke a silent prayer, then reaching for Michael's phone he began to dial the number for the LAPD.


	11. The Measure of the Man

The silence in the stateroom was broken only by Ellie's soft sobs and Steve's rattled breathing. Jesse sat beside Steve, one hand lightly patting his arm. To the casual observer it would appear that he was comforting his patient, when in reality it was the reverse. Jesse was taking quiet reassurance from the contact with his best friend. Though heat from the fever radiated from his body, he also felt the strength it represented. It grounded him and allowed him to clear his mind and formulate a plan. His entire life he had been misjudged, and because he was small in stature and had a boyish appearance this often caused people to think he was soft or weak. Neither was the case, you didn't suffer through the trials and tribulations of medical school and residency without developing a certain innate toughness. He rarely allowed it to show on the surface, but it was always there. He had relied on it when he and Steve had been trapped in the rubble of Community General, and once again he needed to tap into it.

OOO

Mark sat staring into space, he knew who and had some guesses as to why, but he was still no closer to the where, and without that he was no closer to finding his son either. The knot that had taken up residence in his stomach the moment Steve had put on the Kevlar vest and moved into the warehouse had grown to the size of a basketball. He felt like he was on the verge of figuring out everything. The puzzle was almost complete, but there were a couple of important pieces that were missing. He became aware of a change in the sounds of the voices behind him, they had been muted and somber, but now they took on a sense of excitement and urgency, as he turned to try and determine the cause for the change a hand came to rest on his shoulder. He turned and looked up into Cheryl's eyes trying, with a father's desperation, to read their message.

OOO

Nicolayev had watched the expressions play across the face of the young doctor, the somewhat chaotic emotions of earlier had been replaced by a steely resolve. His admiration rose another notch. This young man, this Jesse Travis, was a force to be reckoned with. His determination to get them all out of their current situation with no further damage, against significant odds was hard to believe, but in spite of himself the Russian felt a spark of hope. This deal was dead for him, he had been played like everyone else, the only thing he could hope for now was get out of the entire mess alive.

"Doctor, have you come up with a plan?"

Jesse jerked slightly; the sound of the voice had seemed overly loud. He stopped the patting motion on Steve's arm and gestured towards the fire extinguisher that sat on the floor in front of him.

"We can use this," he continued to speak as reached into his pants pocket and retrieved Steve's knife that he had used earlier in the impromptu surgery, "and I have this."

Nicolayev smiled slightly. "And what would you suggest we do with them?" he asked as he gazed skeptically at the young man's chosen arsenal.

Irritation caused Jesse's brows to draw together. "Look, at least I am trying to come up with something, instead of sitting around waiting for them to come back!"

Nicolayev held up his hands in silent surrender. "You are right, Doctor, forgive me, I do not mean to seem as if I am giving up, but as a gambler I tend to play the odds and this situation does not offer good odds."

Jesse nodded his understanding. "I know about playing the odds myself, I have to do it on a regular basis when dealing with patients, education and medicine only takes you so far, sometimes you have to gamble, you have to take chances."

"Again, you are right, so what do we do?" Nicolayev asked.

For a moment the enormity of the responsibility for everyone almost overwhelmed Jesse. As he gazed around the room he focused briefly on Ellie, she had stopped crying, her eyes were red and swollen, he then shifted to Steve, his breathing had become shallower, and he was so pale he almost appeared transparent. He drew a deep breath and said a silent prayer before quietly calling Ellie over to join them. They had one chance to get this right and everyone had to be clear on what each of them needed to do.

OOO

"Cheryl?" Mark's voice broke as he spoke.

"Doctor Sloan, there was a call made to the precinct, the man said he was calling from a yacht located just off the coast, close to Malibu, he says Michael Fortesque has been killed, and that Steve, Jesse, Ellie and Cheslav Nicolayev are on board. The coast guard is already on its way with a helicopter and a cutter, they are holding one for us, the Captain thought you might want to go." Cheryl found herself speaking to his back as the 'elderly' doctor rapidly increased the distance between them. Smiling and shaking her head she followed him towards the squad car that was waiting to take herself, the captain, Lucinda Fortesque and of course Mark Sloan to the boat that awaited them.

As Mark reached the car he slid gracefully into the backseat beside Lucinda, he felt her hand grasp his and squeeze lightly. He looked up to find her gazing at him with sad tear filled eyes. He knew that look well, he had seen it on his own face, a child hurt or in danger was the only thing that could cause it. He smiled and squeezed back reassuringly.

"They will be fine," his voice relayed more confidence than he actually felt; his real feelings were much different.

OOO

Marcus Gault moved away from the door and looked around him. He gave a silent thanks for Michael Fortesque's obsession with privacy. The room had been heavily soundproofed and had he not been standing pressed to the door and expecting the noise of the gunshot even he wouldn't have known what it was. Taking another drag on his cigarette he moved down the hall towards the door that would lead him to the deck and the powerboat that was tied to the back of the yacht.

Viktor Bordonov sat cradling the gun in his hands and staring at the now lifeless body of his partner. He knew he needed to get rid of the gun, if the blame was to be placed at the feet of the North Koreans the gun could not be found. He was sure that Marcus Gault was long gone; he had lived up to his end of the bargain. What would now happen with Hugo and Ellie? Would he be able to look Lucinda and the girl in the face knowing he had killed Michael? His private musings were interrupted by a knock on the door. "Mr. Fortesque?" a muffled voice called. "It's me, Price, are you still in there?"

Viktor hesistated briefly. He should not have waited, now things could easily become more complicated. Slipping the gun into his jacket pocket he moved across the room and opened the door. "I'm afraid something horrible has happened." As Viktor spoke the man had shouldered him out of the way and entered the room. As he scanned the room, Viktor saw his shoulders stiffen as his gaze encountered his dead boss. Price swung around his gun in hand and fired a shot. Victor's last thought as the darkness claimed him was how graceful the move had been.

OOO

Steve sat bolt upright on the bed, even in his condition he recognized the sound for what it was. A gun had just been discharged. He turned his head to find the other occupants of the room staring transfixed at the door; he heard a muffled curse from outside and the sound of heavy footsteps running down the hallway. "JESSE!" His voice rang out strong and clear and broke the spell the others had been under.

"Steve, no, lay back down," Jesse spoke as he hurried across the room. As he reached his side Jesse dropped to the bed and placed a knowing hand against Steve's face, the heat was almost unbearable to touch. He felt long fingers grasp his thigh and looked to find Steve eyeing him intently. His eyes were clear even though he was ravaged with fever.

"Go…now," he panted. He motioned for Jesse to lean closer. "I don't trust Nicolayev, you have to get Ellie out of here, something has happened…," his voice had gotten progressively weaker as he had spoken and before he could finish he lost the battle to stay conscious.

For a moment Jesse nearly panicked. The movement of Steve's chest had become so slight that he feared he had lost him. In that moment the brutal truth was driven home, he would have to leave him. There was no other way to get Ellie out. The decision he was being forced to make tore at his soul. He was going to have to leave one friend, his best friend, to an uncertain fate to save another.


	12. The Final Blow

**THE GIRL NEXT DOOR**

**Chapter 12: The Final Blow**

As he strode along the corridor to the waiting powerboat, Marcus Gault could barely contain his grin. It had been so easy, so ridiculously easy, to double cross the double crossers. All he'd had to do was exploit their twinned weaknesses of greed and arrogance, and leave the two idiots to destroy themselves. It had been like a game of chess, manoeuvring his two hapless pawns into position, before striking. That, Gault thought smugly, had been nothing short of genius.

So had the plan for Bordonov to get rid of his increasingly volatile boss. Suggesting to Fortescue that he play the supportive friend to the grieving, enraged Russian had been the first step. With the Russian knowing the truth all along, that it had been Fortescue who'd sent the assassins in to kill Hugo, the result was going to be inevitable. And with Fortescue's guards checking so regularly on him, he'd just needed to arrange the meeting – then wait for a misguided bodyguard to find his dead boss, and murder the only other man in the room.

Now he was free to take not only Bordonov's payoff, but also half a million dollars. Free to buy the luxuries he'd once only dreamed of. Perhaps a yacht like this one, he mused, running an appreciative hand along the rich mahogany panelling that graced the walls. If not for the slight 'accident' which was to strike this beauty, he might well have taken it too.

An urgent voice broke into his musings, startling him enough to spin round to face its source. Even as his ex boss' chief bodyguard came hurrying up to him, Gault already knew the reason for his urgency. He'd only just heard the gunshot – but he'd known what it had meant.

"Mr Gault, you – you'd better come . . . it's Mr Fortescue, he – he's been shot . . . killed . . ."

After months of careful planning, lies and deception, the expression of outraged shock that now took over Gault's grin came as second nature.

"Shot? What do you mean shot? Killed?"

"Yes, sir," Price nodded, enraged himself, but genuinely so, as he continued brusquely, "I found him in his office with Bordonov. The Russian was trying to make it look like the Koreans had done it, but . . . well, I could smell the cordite on him, and he was still holding the gun."

"So that shot I heard?"

"Yes sir, Bordonov's dead," Price confirmed, seeing no reason to suspect that, having been exploited in one double cross, he was now embroiled in another.

Gault nodded in calm approval, yet his mind was racing. He should be off the boat by now, speeding to his new riches, not having to tidy up yet another complication, albeit one of his own making.

"Well, there's little point in staying here now," he said at last, keeping his tone brisk and business-like. "Kill the hostages, finish wiring up the boat, then meet me back at the warehouse."

"Kill them?" Price stared at him, oddly shocked considering his profession. He was no stranger to killing, of course, but only to protect the man who'd paid him. To kill four innocent people did not sit well with him. "But sir, El- I mean, Mr Fortescue's daughter, he gave orders that she wasn't to be harmed."

"Yes, well, I give the orders around here now, Price," Gault cut in sharply, his dark blue eyes hardening to cobalt. "Right now those four people are the only ones who can identify us. You're a smart man, Price. Or rather I thought you were. A live witness is a dangerous witness. They can identify us to the cops, and they can certainly name us! But of course if you want to take that chance and risk spending your life serving time, then by all means . . . "

Stung by this criticism, Price nodded, trying, without much success, to keep the reluctance and resentment from his voice. He'd known Ellie for years, even protected her life on several occasions. To be asked to end it now . . .

"Yes, Sir, I'll take care of it personally."

Watching him stride away, Gault's face wore the same expression of deep mistrust. He'd worked too hard, waited too long to risk losing everything now. Price had now become as much of a liability as the people he'd just sent him to kill. That made him dangerous. Expendable. The ride to his waiting fortune was going to have to wait just a little while longer. Checking his gun, loading it with fresh cartridges, Gault startled to follow Price back towards the main guest stateroom.

OOO

After nearly three days of living from one second to the next, an unseen bond had grown between them. A bond strong enough for the vote to have been unanimous, despite Jesse's protests. Ellie had only needed to see the grief stricken expression on Jesse's face as he'd whispered a final goodbye to Steve to cast hers.

"Jesse, I'm staying. After everything we've been through, I can't leave you now, I can't expect you to leave someone you care so much about. So whatever happens to Steve, it happens to me too."

If Ellie's vote had startled him, then that of his other companion had left Jesse utterly floored.

"I too will stay," Nicolayev had insisted, a cynical smile crossing his face. "I have, as you say, back to pay."

"Back to . . . ?!! Oh, uh, you mean payback," Jesse had automatically corrected him – wryly thinking this was one hell of a time to start correcting people's grammar. _Jeez, I sound just like Mom_! Swallowing down the cold terror that he might never see his mother again, Jesse had instead spent several moments staring into Nicolayev's eyes, trying to find signs of duplicity. He'd trusted the Russian once already, and had been chillingly rewarded by the end of Steve's gun. And after three days of being held at gunpoint, Jesse didn't feel up to a repeat performance. To his surprise he'd seen only calmly appraising approval there, and something else he couldn't quite believe, a genuine, admiring respect.

Seeing his surprise, Nicolayev had simply smiled, nodding slightly while shrugging his shoulders.

"You are brave and resourceful, so is your lady. If we stick together, I believe you can get us out of here."

Seeing the same determination on Ellie's face, Jesse had sighed, realising there was no point arguing. Then he'd nodded, offering them both a slight smile that expressed every word of his appreciation.

"Thank you," he'd said at last in soft, still tense but heartfelt gratitude.

Although her injured arm prevented her from physically helping them, Ellie had been determined to play her part. Now, from where she stood listening at the door, she called urgently for Jesse's attention.

"Jesse, I can hear voices, someone's coming!"

"Okay, Ellie, get clear," Jesse called softly, offering her a reassuring smile as she retreated to the far end of the stateroom, before turning to Nicolayev. "Ready?"

"I am ready, Jesse," the Russian assured him, smiling too while he gave the fire extinguisher in front of him a final, vital check over.

Nodding his acknowledgement, too distracted to notice this sudden informal use of his name, Jesse glanced down to study his own meagre choice of weapon.

_Oh sure,_ he thought wryly, draping a swamping toga of bedding further around his shoulders.

_Like Russell Crowe ever faced those gladiators with half a bed of sheeting wrapped round his arm_!

Remembering where that bedding had come from, Jesse then glanced briefly across at Steve, shock and fear at his friend's appearance sending another rush of adrenaline through an already pounding heart. He was going down fast now, real fast, his breathing little more than strangled gasps for air. His face had taken on a deathly greyness that Jesse recognised all too well. If Steve didn't get to a hospital within the next hour . . .

Shaking himself out of his fear and worry, Jesse finished winding the loosened sheet around his arm, his eyes now trained on the door in front of him. This was it. This was his last chance to get Steve, and the rest of them, out of this mess alive. Unless he could get them safely through the next few seconds and minutes, it was all over.

The door clicked, swung open, and Cheslav Nicolayev made his move.

Distracted in giving orders to his team, Price never knew what hit him. A high-speed jet of foam and water hit him full in the face and eyes, painfully blinding him. As he doubled over, something soft and small leaped onto his back, wrapping him in a tangle of arms, legs and sheets. With the element of surprise, and Nicolayev's help, Jesse managed to force the bodyguard down onto the floor. In the ensuing struggle, the gun which Nicolayev had instinctively grabbed fired into the furiously wriggling pile of bodies. On a high of adrenaline, the person who'd been hit felt a sudden pain along his forearm, but put it down to yet another painful whack on the dresser which he'd been pressed up against.

Finally succeeding in pinning their struggling quarry under a combination of arms legs and sheeting, Jesse was just starting to dare to believe that this crazy, desperate scheme of his might actually work. Ellie's scream of warning, a gunshot over his head, and a chilling voice behind him put paid to all that.

"The next one, Dr Travis, goes straight through your girlfriend's pretty little head."

OOO

From where he stood at the base of the yacht's transfer ladder, Mark Sloan froze in utter horror.

"Oh God, no! Steve! Jess!" he whispered, shaking his head in numb disbelief. "Oh dear God, no, I – I can't have lost them now! Not when we're so close to getting them out of there!"

Staring down at him from the deck above, Ron Wager felt the clinical calm of his training wage war against his own shock and grief at what those two gunshots had inevitably meant. In the end the clinical training won – but only just.

"Stay here, Mark. I – I'll let you know when we find them," he said at last – knowing full well what Mark Sloan would say to _that._

"Like hell I will!" Mark growled, recovered enough now to climb up the ladder to stand with Ron, a glare of frightening intensity telling the agent that he wasn't 'staying' anywhere.

Knowing better than to even try, Ron just nodded, handing Mark a Kevlar, motioning for him to stay behind him while he led his search and subdue teams down into the cruiser.

OOO

As the dust and ceiling plaster settled around them, Gault watched three stunned faces stare up at him with a sadistic pleasure.

"Better, _much_ better," he said at last, nodding in mocking approval. He'd soon seen the closeness between his ex-boss' daughter and the young doctor who'd been snatched with her, and known exactly how to turn that closeness to his own callous advantage. Just as he knew how the boy would react as, deliberately jarring Ellie's arm, he shoved the sobbing girl away from him and, with brutal calm, pointed his gun towards Steve.

"Of course, I could have gone for your friend here, but, well, he's so far gone already, I'd be wasting precious ammunition."

"**_No_**!" Jesse screamed in powerless horror, knowing just how accurate Gault's sickening claim was. Scrambling to his feet, he then placed himself between Steve and the gun that now aimed certain death into his heart. Determined not to give Gault any more satisfaction than he had already, Jesse made his next words a flat statement instead of the grovelling plea for mercy that he knew Gault wanted. "You've got us, you don't need him."

Watching this astonishing stand off, Price felt his respect for this tiny young doctor multiply tenfold. This was the fourth time he'd stood facing certain death, and refused to back down. If he got the chance to help him, Price now vowed that he would – assuming the kid didn't get blown away first.

Either through his own admiration or a perverse pleasure in prolonging the agony, Gault nodded.

"True, Dr Travis, very true, a dead hostage would be _such_ a liability," he agreed, the false smile slipping back into a sneer of unquestionable menace as he gestured for Jesse to move away. "Okay doctor, you've made your stand and impressed your girlfriend, now _move_!"

With no choice but to obey, Jesse moved away – a final stricken glance back to his dying friend breaking him where Gault had failed.

"Oh God, Steve, I'm sorry," he whispered, tears of regret and helplessness stinging into his eyes.

"I tried, I really tried. Oh God, Mark, I'm so, so sorry. . . "

If Gault had heard these anguished words then he wasn't bothering to crow over them. Besides he had plenty else to gloat about.

"You know, Price, you really disappoint me," he said at last, prodding four unresisting hostages along the corridor. "I send you, a _supposedly_ highly trained killer, to kill four _supposedly_ helpless prisoners, and you allow this boy, this puny _boy_ to outwit you with the oldest trick in the book."

For the past three days, the fuse leading to Jesse Travis' temper had been doing a slow, silent burn.

Now it hit five foot six inches of tired, aching, thoroughly hacked off dynamite.

"God, _damn it_! I am _not_ a **_boy_**!" he yelled, driving his right elbow back into Gault's ribcage, catching his winded, startled captor totally unprepared for the knee that slammed, hard and high, between Gault's legs, with enough force to end all hopes of the Gault family making it to another generation.

As Gault collapsed, howling in agony, and Ellie stared at Jesse in utter shock, all hell broke loose.

Price instinctively grabbed the gun that had fallen from Gault's hand, while Nicolayev vented his own fury with a punch to Gault's jaw that ended his suffering far more mercifully than he deserved. The oath that he spat at him in fierce, furious Russian needed little translation.

Jesse was now leaning against the wall, struggling to believe the scene before him – wondering if he dared believe that this seemingly hopeless, endless ordeal really was over. It was hard to concentrate though, since his head just wouldn't stop spinning.

His eyes, for some reason, were refusing to come back into focus. It was left to Ellie's shocked cry of realisation to explain a worsening dizziness, and the pain which was now flaring through his right arm.

"Oh my God! Jesse, you're – you're bleeding!"

Jesse stared downwards, numbly studying the rivulets of blood which now dripped from his fingers.

The pain was really hitting him now, as the adrenaline which had dampened it left his system – realisation dawning on a suddenly groggy mind. He'd not hit his arm against that dresser at all.

The mass of bedding he'd had wound around it had clearly protected him to a point, but the bullet had still seared a deep graze beneath his elbow, the blood from it hidden by the darkness of his clothes and, no doubt, the tangled pile of sheeting they'd left back in the stateroom.

"Damn, it – it must have opened up when I hit Gault," he said at last, pain and shock causing his mind to irrationally wander. "Awww jeez, that's ruined one of my best shirts!"

That mind was now hallucinating as a familiar voice yelled his name. _Mark? What the hell is Mark doing here?_

"Jesse? _Jesse_!"

Running up to them, with Ron close on his heels, Mark's broad grin of elated relief quickly vanished as he noticed the blood dripping from Jesse's hand, the telltale glassiness in unfocussed eyes.

Years of training and experience pushed that shock to the back of his mind as Mark gently coaxed Jesse to sit on the floor, supporting him against the wall behind him while yelling for a medical team.

Yet even when Mark set to work on his arm, Jesse's thoughts and concerns weren't for himself.

"I – I'm okay, Mark, get – get to Steve," he insisted weakly, gritting his teeth against the pain of the pressure that Mark was now applying to his arm. "He's bad, Mark, real bad, I – I had to leave him . . . the – the guest stateroom, back there along the hall . . . you gotta help him, Mark . . . "

"Easy now, Jess, it's alright, we've already found him. He's alright, he's being airlifted straight to Community General," Mark assured him gently, slipping a supportive arm around his shoulders, both to comfort his young friend and to stop him from moving. It was almost a relief when he saw Jesse's eyes close, felt his head settle against his shoulder in what Mark assumed, and hoped, was an exhausted faint. The stricken agony in his young friend's eyes had torn at his heart.

He should have known better as first one and then two pained blue eyes popped open again, squinting up at him in hopeful appeal.

"Hey, do – do I get a helicopter ride too?!?"

By the time Mark stopped laughing, received a 'sure, why not?' grin and shrug from an equally amused Ron Wagner, and looked back again, Jesse's eyes had closed once more. And this time, despite gentle calls of his name and hustle of activity around him, they did not re-open.

Even as Jesse slipped into his faint, Mark was still smiling as, holding Jesse protectively against him, he glanced up at Ron once more. His boys were safe. The nightmare was finally over.

OOO

"You kicked him _where_?!?" Steve echoed, staring at his red-faced roommate in utter disbelief. From where he sat perched on the edge of Steve's bed, Jesse remained resolutely, sheepishly silent.

The last thing he wanted to do was repeat himself, to give his wickedly grinning friend any more ribbing ammunition than he'd done already.

Unfortunately Ellie Fortescue did it for him instead, with a most unladylike relish.

"Right in the family jewels, Steve, hard enough to knock them loose!"

A shocked, outraged voice cut through the resulting laughter like a hot knife slicing through butter.

"Eleanor! Language!" Pausing for effect, until the laughter died down, Lucinda Fortescue then delivered a regretful afterthought that left Ellie, Jesse and Steve staring at her in wide-eyed surprise.

"My only regret, Jesse, is that you didn't kick that repulsive man harder!" Taking full advantage of Ellie's stunned silence, she then slipped a gently prompting hand under her daughter's sound elbow. "Well now, Ellie, I think we need to leave Jesse and Steve to their rest. In fact you should be resting too, darling, you're still looking dreadfully pale."

Rolling her eyes at the coddling she knew was coming, Ellie glanced back at Jesse and grinned.

"I'll see if I can give her the slip later and make it back for that poker game we started last night," she whispered under cover of a quick kiss on Jesse's cheek, winking slyly back at him before leaving him to Steve's mischievous mercy.

"So, let me get this straight, Jess," Steve continued, casting his still sheepish friend a familiar glance of admiration, affection and much abused patience. "You . . . um . . . _re-arrange_ Gault's family jewels because he called you a _boy_?!?"

"Hey! I was unknowingly in shock, and didn't know what I was doing!" Jesse retorted defensively, hoping against hope that Steve would let the matter drop. Guessing from the widening of his friend's smirk that that just wasn't going to happen, he then sighed, suddenly finding the bandage around his arm and the state of his boots of unusually deep interest. "'sides, he also called me puny."

Making a mental note _never_ to call his friend a boy, or puny, no matter what the provocation, Steve just nodded – sensibly masking his laughter behind a less than convincing cough. Before he could comment further, though, Mark arrived to check in on his convalescing patients.

Jesse had only needed an overnight stay for rest and observation, but Steve's recuperation was taking understandably longer. For Mark to see him now, grinning at an oddly pouty faced Jesse, it was hard for Mark to believe that, just a week earlier, his son had been airlifted to Community General more dead than alive.

That week had seen an odd reversal in the usual big brother/ little brother protectiveness between them. Despite his own injuries and exhaustion, Jesse had rarely strayed from Steve's room. He'd spent hours standing or sitting next to Steve's bed, unaware of Mark's own discreet doorway vigil, just watching his friend sleep. When his own exhaustion had caught up with him, he'd simply fallen asleep where he sat, his hand still resting against Steve's shoulder.

It hadn't been difficult for Mark to find the reason for Jesse's reluctance to leave his friend. Being forced to leave him to die alone like that would have torn Jesse apart. And knowing Jesse's aversion to 'getting all mushy' he'd simply allowed his young friend these moments with Steve alone, allowing Jesse to heal and recover in private.

Now his son had an unofficial roommate. And as far as Mark was aware, Steve hadn't raised much in the way of complaint or protest. Well, apart from the fact that Jesse had munched his way through both of their get well baskets, a whole bag of donuts, and anything else that wasn't nailed down. _So_, Mark now reflected fondly, _nothing new there then._

Equally familiar and welcome was Jesse's barrage of questions as he greeted Mark with, he noted in some amusement, an unusual degree of relief. Or maybe it was the sight of fresh un-nailed down donuts on Steve's lunch tray which accounted for that happy enthusiasm.

"Hey, Mark, did Ron find the containers? How did the hearing go? Will Gault go to trial? And did Price and Nicolayev agree to testify?"

"Yes, Jesse, they've both agreed to turn state's evidence," Mark replied, gently patting his shoulder.

"After the way Gault treated them, neither owed him any favours. And yes, Gault finally revealed where the money was. I suppose he realised the game was up after Ron took him into custody."

"Yeah, Jess, that's something I've been wondering," Steve chipped in, serious now as he glanced at his friend, frowning in puzzlement. "I mean, Price was one of the guys who grabbed you, so how did you get him on your side?"

"I can answer that one," Mark smiled, casting an equally confused Jesse an admiring glance of his own. "Apparently Price was impressed by the way you stood up to him, and Gault, even at gunpoint.

In his book, that took a lot of guts."

As Steve nodded in heartfelt agreement, Jesse nodded too, although he was understandably reluctant to dwell on the memory of either standoff. Instead, as usual, he deflected the attention away from himself by changing the subject.

"So Fortescue was framing Hugo for the theft of the money, Bordonov was double crossing Fortescue to find out where it was, and Gault was double crossing them both?"

"Yes, Jesse, that's right, and Ron's asked me to thank you for saving the FBI an awful lot of trouble with getting that counterfeit money off the streets," Mark replied, trading a wry smile with Steve as the beaming hero rewarded himself with an especially large jammy donut. Placing one on Steve's plate while he still had the chance, pretending he didn't see Jesse's pout of disappointment, he then aimed a distracting nod towards an unfinished game of chess on Steve's bed-table. "I must admit, though, I'd have hated to play him at chess, the man was a tactical genius. He knew exactly how to exploit both Fortescue and Bordonov. Of course, as such a trusted aide, Fortescue would never have suspected him of masterminding such a double cross."

"Yeah, but he was still taking one hell of a risk," Steve pointed out, taking a long drink of his coffee. "Remembering what Lucinda told you and Ellie told us about him, he had one almighty temper."

Remembering the teasing he'd been subjecting Jesse to before Mark arrived, he then smirked wickedly. "Of course, so does our Jesse . . . as . . . um . . . Gault found to his _very_ painful cost."

Seeing the glare with which Jesse responded, and also knowing the still unbelievable cause behind it, Mark did what any other long suffering father of two bickering boys would do. He became conveniently blind and sensibly deaf.

"Yeah, well, he deserved it," Jesse said at last, another narrow eyed glare warning Steve he would pay big time for that one. "For a start, he insulted our menu at Bob's, called it pig swill, reckoned he wouldn't even feed it to his dog."

"Really?" Steve too looked suitably outraged, before the mischievous grin returned to his face. "Well, I wonder what he'll think of prison food for the next fifty years to life?"

"Probably the same as I think about _that,_" Jesse retorted, studying Steve's lunch tray in open disgust. "Aww, jeez, Steve, how can you eat that stuff?"

"Maybe because you've beaten me to everything else," Steve shot back, raising a meaningful eyebrow.

As Jesse pulled an appropriate face back at him, he then held a conciliatory plateful towards his friend. "Hey, you want one of these pancakes?"

"To use as what, a Frisbee?" Jesse zinged straight back at him, the disgust all too evident on his face as Steve tucked into his lunch with gleeful relish, deliberately exaggerating the pleasure of every mouthful.

Never to be outdone, Jesse leaned across the bed to snatch up an unwisely unguarded bagful of donuts – revelling in the fact that a still bed-bound Steve was powerless to stop him from a double jammy whammy. "Mmmmmm!!" he enthused, licking his fingers with the same deliberate enjoyment.

Sensing that brotherly warfare was imminent, Mark decided this was a good time for a strategic withdrawal.

As the familiar bickering began in earnest, he closed the door behind him, adding a very happy afterthought.

"This might be a good time for me to take a vacation…"

OOO

Two weeks later, in the main concourse of LAX, Mark gratefully deposited a large, _very_ heavy suitcase on Virgin Atlantic's check-in scale. Passing across the relevant documents to the attendant behind the desk, he then followed his son's concerned gaze to where Jesse and Ellie stood quietly chatting nearby.

Although excited by the thought of returning to London, Ellie Fortescue had been dreading this moment.

She'd expected nothing more from him than simple friendship. Instead she'd involved him in a nightmare that had nearly cost both their lives. Now she had the chance of a fresh start – one that, only a few days ago, had appeared to be impossible. She had her whole life to look forward to. So why did she feel like crying?

"Jesse, I really don't know how to thank you," she said at last, finding it oddly difficult to meet his eyes.

"Not just for everything you've done with this mess with Hugo and my father, but, well, just for being such a wonderful friend. Even before all this happened, you've been so kind and supportive towards me. I owe you so much, Jesse, and now I feel as though I've taken advantage of you."

"Hey, you haven't taken advantage of me at all," Jesse assured her, slipping his arm gently around her.

"And you don't owe me anything. The only thanks I need, the best thanks you can give me, is to be happy.

Hugo's learned his lesson, and he's getting help. But most important of all, he's still in love with you."

"Yes, I know," Ellie conceded, glancing to where her newly re-instated fiancé sat in a courtesy buggy, chatting with Mark and Steve – all three trying, without much success, not to watch this poignant farewell. "Yes, I know he still loves me, and I still love him, but, Jesse, I feel that I'm running out on you."

"You're not," Jesse cut in softly, flashing a smile that made her forget the point she'd been trying to make.

"Ellie, I care about you, very much. And you'll always have me as a friend if you need one. I'll be here. But I'm not the one you're in love with. You know that as well as I do."

Faced with such logic, and the kind understanding in Jesse's eyes, Ellie sighed and nodded agreement – her new resolve faltering back into a shaky smile as she realised the time had come to leave him.

"Well, I guess I'd better go," she said at last, wrapping her good arm around him in a sudden, fierce hug.

"I'll never forget you, Jesse Travis."

"I won't forget you either, Ellie," Jesse assured her, hugging her back as the others came to re-join them.

Once all the hugs and handshakes were over, Ellie followed her mother and Hugo into the departure lounge.

Pausing at the gate, she turned to give Jesse a final smile, one last wave, and then she was gone. Jesse kept waving back at Ellie until he could no longer see her – and for several moments after that. Then he smiled, in grateful realisation, as a familiar hand settled gently onto his shoulder.

"You okay, Jess?"

"Yeah, Steve, I'm fine," Jesse replied softly, reassuring his ever protective big brother as only he could.

"Though I'll feel even better once we get some lunch, I'm famished!"

"You're _famished_?" Steve echoed, casting his young friend a glance of purest, deepest scepticism. "Okay, Jess, just humour me here, how on earth can you be hungry when you managed to eat your way through most of our fridge this morning?"

"Body mass," Jesse explained without missing a beat, taking full advantage of Steve's puzzled silence to give more credence to his theory. "No, really, Steve, it's a scientific fact that short people burn off energy more quickly than tall people. So they need to eat more. Your dad'll tell you, right, Mark…?"

Wryly wondering when he'd been volunteered into this highly dubious claim, Mark just shook his head. "Oh no, you don't, Jess, you can keep me out of this," he warned through a helpless chuckle of laughter.

Rolling his eyes at the debate that inevitably started, he glanced wistfully towards a nearby window display. Out of a cloudless scene of sun, sea and sand, a bright bold headline called invitingly across to him.

"COME TO SUNNY HAWAII, AND LEAVE YOUR TROUBLES AT HOME !!"

"I wish," Mark sighed, ruefully shaking his head while steering his two ever-bickering boys out to the car.

It was only a ten minute drive to BBQ Bob's, but it promised to be a very _long _ten minutes. A very long ten minutes indeed.


End file.
